


a storm is coming in

by canticle



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Emotional Overload, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, avoidance techniques 101: the ficcening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-09 22:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13491372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/canticle
Summary: Nothing but this, the whole summer, just the two of them; Akira taking a well-deserved break, and Ryuji running from his failures.That’s always been something he’s been good at, at least. Good to see nothing’s changed.





	1. Chapter 1

A single duffle bag and a carry-on sized rolling suitcase shouldn’t be enough space to carry a month and a half’s worth of belongings, but Ryuji is a light packer; he makes do.

It’s not like he needs anything heavy, anyway; one set of nice clothes (just in case), couple pairs of long pants in case the weather turns, but mostly shorts and tanks, clean socks and underwear, his 3ds, a couple manga he’s wanted Akira to check out, and a conspicuous lack of any sort of textbook.

After all, he doesn’t have anything to study for now.

Doesn’t matter—he pulls himself away from that thought almost viciously, bracing his rolling bag against the wall of the train with one knee when it tries to roll away from him. Doesn’t matter, because right here and right now he’s got better things to think about.

Things like the whole of the summer vacation spread out before him.

There’s already a difference in the air not an hour out from Tokyo. The buildings have all but vanished behind sheets of green; the train is fast enough that he can’t pick out an individual from the masses. It’s just blurry foliage and dappled sunlight, a _beat-beat-beat_ of green-gold-green tattooing a rhythm against his face.

He is, against all reason, anxious.

It simmers in his gut and in the back of his skull, makes him a bit lightheaded, a bit nauseous. There’s no reason for it and it frustrates him, sets his thoughts and stomach churning. Akira had invited him; hell, he’d all but gone to Tokyo and dragged Ryuji back by the collar when he’d heard. There’s absolutely no way he’d let his bro go to those sort of lengths, not here and now.

Tickets to Inaba aren’t cheap, but they’re not that expensive either. His part-time jobs over the last four months have given him a modest amount of savings; he’s got nearly a hundred thousand yen after leaving rent money for his mom on the kitchen counter this morning. Not like Akira’s gonna charge him room and board, but he’s definitely gonna help out where he can; he’s not gonna make Akira carry his weight.

He checks his phone. Just after 10; he’s still got three hours on this train before he switches to the more rural line. No new notifications. He swipes up anyway, pages through his messages laconically. Some hideous emoticon from Futaba; last night’s reminder to get the rice cooking for dinner from his mom; the conversation he’d had right before bed with Ann, still simmering with unresolved tension, because how _dare_ she think Naruto is a better protagonist than Goku?

\--Oh, wait. Two unread messages from Akira. Must have missed them this morning.

**> >from: tuxedo mask, 07/26, 7:38am**

_don’t forget an umbrella, we’ve got like 60% chance of rain_

_knowing inaba, that means it’ll be sunny until you’re 3 mins out and then it’ll pour_

Great.

To be honest, he doesn’t mind the rain. It always feels cleaner in Inaba anyway, and it’s warm enough that he won’t catch a chill between the station and Akira’s house. It’s no more than a ten-minute jog; he might even pick up a beef skewer from that one place on the way.

**< <to: tuxedo mask, 07/26, 10:13am**

_umbrellas are for the weak_

_what do u take me for_

Might as well check the group chat while he’s at it; the last time he looked, Futaba and Yusuke had been going at it over something or other.

 

**> >in: “everyone’s opinions are bad and they should feel bad”- sakura futaba, 07/25, 8:40pm**

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_i don’t care what you say, inari, you’re not feather swan!_

**> >from: lobsterman**

_If we are going at this from an artistic angle,_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_you’re still not feather swan! if anyone is feather swan, it’s me_

**> >from: lobsterman**

_Impossible. I have never seen you wear the color blue in the year plus that I have known you._

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_dibs on feather hawk_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_no!!! makoto is feather hawk!!!_

**> >from: the feds**

_Do I have to be? I would rather be Feather Falcon; red is not my color._

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_doesn’t matter! feather hawk is the boss!_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_then why isn’t akira feather hawk?_

**> >from: lil miss juvie hall pageant winner 2kXX**

_ha_

_as if_

_also futaba what the fuck when did you change that put it back_

**> >from: the feds**

_Language, please._

**> >from: lil miss juvie hall pageant winner 2kXX**

_sorry mom_

_dont ground me i bean good_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_are you bribing the law with coffee?_

**> >from: lil miss juvie hall pageant winner 2kXX**

_depends_

_is it working_

_fuTABA_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_:3c_

**> >from: lobsterman**

_Fascinating! Emoticons truly are their own form of art, are they not?_

_Able to convey such expression in such few characters…_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ >:3c _

_fine I’ll fix it_

**> >from: lil miss juvie hall pageant winner 2kXX**

_besides everyone knows im feather owl_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_of course_

_why didn’t i see it before_

_fatty fatty 2x4_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_:(_

_its only 2 kilo im still pretty_

_thank you futaba_

_its nice to know someone is aware of my efforts_

**> >from: lobsterman**

_First university, then the Diet, then the world?_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_aw yeah_

**> >from: the world’s deadliest creampuff**

_So sorry to interrupt, but I have an announcement!_

_I have another load of vegetables that need to go to Leblanc in the next day or so; would anyone be able to give me a hand?_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_YIS_

_i mean_

_no hand but yis veggies_

_sojiro’s gonna make me something TASTY_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_problem child_

_you go help with the veg_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_you’re not my real dad_

_you can’t make me_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_how dare you speak to your father like that_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_go to your room_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_sike dad i’m ALREADY THERE_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_the disrespect_

**> >from: lobsterman**

_I will have some free time tomorrow afternoon._

_I assume the usual place?_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_whatever i’ll go_

**> >from: the world’s deadliest creampuff**

_Thank you so much, Yusuke and Futaba!_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_don’t get me wrong_

_i’m only in it for the veggies_

**> >from: the world’s deadliest creampuff**

_Of course! Aren’t we all?_

 

A message overlays the screen before he can go any further; an updated weather notification promises a 70% chance of rain. He sighs and tucks his phone away, resting his forehead on the window, watching green-gold-green dapple across the window.

Two hours to Inaba.

He naps; he fusses around with a game on his phone; he changes trains. The sky is still mostly clear. Akira texts him back a single word— _“damp”—_ and he replies with a skull-and-crossbones emoji. They trade more and more elaborately crafted emoji replies on and off; Ryuji is composing a boat on a turbulent sea when the first raindrop hits the window.

At least the manga are tucked underneath all his clothes in the duffel bag. They’ll stay dry until he can unpack them, even if he does stop for a skewer.

He’s not expecting Akira to be at the station to greet him; he’s a big boy, he’s been to Inaba at least three times by now, he knows how to get around. Exit the terminal, turn right, pass the gas station and the house with all the cats hanging out above the carport, up the hill and to the left, two streets down. He’s jogged the route a handful of times with Akira before. And the rain isn’t that bad, even though by the time the train hits the station it’s enough to leave puddles on the ground and rivulets trickling into the storm drains.

Every time he gets off the train at Inaba, Ryuji’s first reflex is to take a massive breath. The air is always so much more fresh, and this time is no different, flavored with the spice of petrichor and the bland clean smell of country rain. There’s no grime in Inaba, no haze or skyscrapers, no traffic screeching, no flood of humanity. There’s only one other person that gets off the train with him, as a matter of fact, and they trot right out of the station like they have somewhere urgent to be.

Ryuji takes his time, settles his duffel bag more firmly on his shoulder, clicks the handle of his rolling bag up and down trying to find the perfect length to drag it along behind him. Maybe he should hold off on the skewer for now; juggling two bags and a snack might be a little much, and it’d be pointless if he drops it. He doesn’t have enough money that he can go around just throwing food on the ground, after all. He isn’t delaying because of the unease still wiggling its way around in his gut; that’d be stupid and cowardly. Ryuji may be stupid, but he’s not a coward.

It’s not that he’s worried about seeing Akira again; they talk every day, and it’s only been three months or so since they’ve seen each other. Nothing’s changed. They’re still friends; close friends, good friends, the best of friends. He’s still Ryuji’s closest confidant.

Nothing’s changed.

There is literally no evidence that Akira is anything less than thrilled to have his best friend here, despite the fact that his best friend is ~~a failure~~ not on the same page anymore.

He fusses with the handle a little more until it makes a satisfying click, squares his shoulders, and takes one step into the rain. This gives him the perfect vantage point to see Akira come flying around the corner, head down and umbrella up, and narrowly avoid taking out the other guy leaving the station.

Even a year plus after giving up the Metaverse, his reflexes are still nothing to sneer at. He pivots on one heel and hops to the side in a move that looks pretty dumb (but still stupidly graceful), bowing in apology. The other dude waves him off, and Akira straightens up and shakes his head. He’s not wearing his fake glasses today, probably cause the rain would get all over them and ruin his aesthetic; he’s given into the muggy weather by wearing a t-shirt, but his pants are still stubbornly long.

Would it kill the guy to own a pair of shorts? No, but he still won’t wear them. Kurusu Akira is vain about many things, and top among those is his knobby knees.

(They’re really not, especially now that Akira’s put some definition into his calves and thighs, but Ryuji understands body image and perception. He’ll rag on the glasses all day, though.)

“Yo!” Ryuji calls, delighting in the way Akira’s head snaps up, focusing in on him like a laser sight. “What did that guy ever do to you?”

“Got in the way of my world domination, of course,” Akira says promptly, trotting the rest of the way to the station steps. His umbrella is big enough for both of them, just barely; Akira bumps his shoulder and angles the umbrella a little further over them with a grin. “Not smart enough to stay inside out of the rain?”

“Nope,” Ryuji says. “Not like I’ll melt or anythin’, the rain feels good after bein’ cooped up.” Akira gestures for the duffel; Ryuji hands him the rolling bag instead, relishing in the raised eyebrows and the uptick in the corner of his mouth. Kurusu Akira is full of sass and vinegar, and never does Ryuji appreciate it more than when he’s missed it for months.

Akira knocks their shoulders together again, and most of the unease drains away like a plug’s been opened. His shoulders feel lighter, even the one with the duffel bag on it.

They chat on the way home, light, no-stakes back-and-forths that serve more to re-adjust to each other’s physical presence than to pass on any sort of information. Akira insists on stopping for food when Ryuji’s stomach growls; he sheepishly admits to skipping breakfast, and gets bopped on the nose with a steak bit for his troubles. The rain stays light, a gentle pattering counterpoint to their conversation. Ryuji’s left shoulder gets a bit damp.

There’s no cars in the driveway, but there is a scooter kept safe and dry under a plastic tarp. It had been a “welcome back to Inaba” gift last year; Akira had sent them all selfies of him posing on it, with the requisite jeers.

(“I prefer walking,” he’d told Ryuji over a call one night, “it’s just no fun when I can’t drive headfirst into something.”

“With an attitude like that, it’s better for everyone if you’re off the road,” Ryuji had told him very seriously, and the resulting chuckle had carried him through the night.)

He can hear Morgana as soon as they get inside, thumping down the hallway and yodeling. “I smell steak! You stopped at Souzai Daigaku! Did you bring me anything?”

“You don’t sound like you need anything,” Ryuji says under his breath. “What’ve you been feeding him? He sounds like a bowling ball.”

“Don’t be mean,” Akira says severely, but he’s grinning when Morgana rounds the corner. “Yeah, I saved you the last piece.”

Morgana looks the same as he always does, little white feet and bright blue eyes and yellow collar and all. He doesn’t look noticeably heavier, either; maybe it’s just the acoustics in Akira’s house. “Not as good as tuna, but I’ll take it!” He hops from the ground to the low table nearby, giving the skewer a good sniff as Akira toes off his shoes. “And hi, I guess,” he adds begrudgingly, flicking Ryuji a single glance.

“Yeah, hi to you too.” Ryuji thunks a knuckle on Morgana’s forehead, laughing a bit when Morgana swats his hand away. “Isn’t steak bad for cats?”

The obligatory “I’m not a cat” comes out more like a “Mm nm n cccht” when said through a mouthful of steak. “And besides,” he says after he’s swallowed, licking his chops, “steak is good for my coat.”

“I thought that was eggs?” Ryuji says dubiously.

“Eggs, steak, fish,” Morgana agrees, a greedy glint in his eye that explains _exactly_ what Akira’s been feeding him. He’s probably the best-kept cat in Japan at this point.

Akira taps his elbow; when Ryuji looks, he nods down the hallway. “Leave him to his meal,” he says, “let’s get you settled in.”

It’s always a little weird coming back to Akira’s house; it’s large enough that he and Morgana rattle around in it like peas in an empty shell. When his parents are around they do a lot of entertaining; when they’re not, Akira and Morgana have the run of too many rooms. Who even needs three guest rooms? Who needs a den _and_ a living room _and_ an entertainment nook? What’s the difference between a dining room and a breakfast nook? Are you _only_ allowed to eat breakfast in the breakfast nook, or is brunch okay?

It gives the place a feeling of discontent, somehow. There’s furniture and stuff everywhere, decorations, stuff like that, but it all feels impersonal, clinical. The warmest, most welcoming place in the house is Akira’s room, and that’s where they both head without discussion.

He’s offered Ryuji a guest room before; Ryuji’d taken one look inside and refused, on the grounds that he felt like if he set a single smudge anywhere Akira’s parents would arrest him.

Akira’s room is big enough for both of them anyway; large enough that they can both move around the spare futon, large enough that Ryuji’s two bags tucked into a corner take barely any space at all. The manga gets stacked on Akira’s desk, his clothes go into a spare drawer like they belong there.

Once he’s done unpacking, he hesitates, still crouched in front of his drawer. “You’re sure I’m cool to stay the whole break?” he asks, just because he has to, just to make _sure._

“Mm?” Akira rolls over from where he’s sprawled on his bed, his head hanging off the end right next to Ryuji’s. “Course you are. Wouldn’t want you anywhere else.”

“Alright,” he mutters, mouth screwing up to the side. “But, listen, if you ever want me to not—“

“Ryuji.”

“I’m just sayin’—“

“Ryuji.”

“Just let me—“

“ _Ryuji.”_ A pillow hits him on the side of the face before he can talk himself into any more knots. He sputters and turns just in time to catch it on the other side of his face as well. “Shut up.”

He manages to wrench the pillow away and toss it back onto Akira’s pants, wiping his suddenly sweaty palms on his shorts. When he looks up Akira is watching him, the way he used to when Ryuji would try to hide how much his leg was aching during their first few training sessions together, or his exhaustion during long Mementos runs. Akira’s always been able to see right through him to the things he never wants to say.

Usually, he’s kind enough to let them lie where they are.

Whatever he sees makes him nod. “The rain’s lightened up. Let’s go for a run.”

“Yeah,” Ryuji breathes, abruptly aware of just how much pent-up energy he has. “Yeah, let’s.”

They go for a run.

The rain has dropped down to nothing but a sprinkle, so they head for Akira’s favorite path by the floodplain. There’s no one else out—no one dumb or desperate enough to head this way when they could be doing any number of things inside. It makes it easier to jab an elbow into Akira’s ribs and take off sprinting, hissing laughter between his teeth as Akira yelps. The pinpricks of moisture on his bare arms, the slap of Akira’s sneakers against the wet pavement as he does his best to catch up, the fresh air all but clinging to the insides of his mouth as he gasps a breath in, ducks under Akira’s flailing arm, and takes off in the other direction, the sharp laugh when Akira tries to grab him again and misses; each of those things sooth his jangling nerves, make it a little easier for him to breathe again.

He ducks under Akira’s arm one last time and skids down the steep hill leading towards the Samegawa, the wet grass slick under his heels, eyes on the old wooden dock. He only makes it three steps on before Akira hits him in the back like a wrecking ball and sends them both belly-flopping into the water.

“What the eff, man!” Ryuji says, or tries to say, when they surface; he’s laughing in great gasping whoops, hard enough that he can barely get the words out. “What was that?!”

“Couldn’t stop,” Akira says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He’s grinning too, shoulders shaking. “Didn’t wanna slide all the way down the dock.”

“Bullshit! You coulda taken a dive without me!”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

He doesn’t have a response. He just slaps a sheet of water into Akira’s face and starts wading his way towards the shore, Akira’s laughter trailing him like a warm scarf.

 

 

“Ready to talk about it?” Akira asks as they slosh their way home.

Ryuji thinks about it for a moment, but it’s still sharp and rough, like sandpaper on a fresh wound. He shakes his head, and Akira nods, and for now that’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guide to group chat names:  
>  **coffee gremlin jr:** futaba  
>  **lobsterman:** yusuke  
>  **the feds:** makoto  
>  **japan’s next top model:** ann  
>  **lil miss juvie hall pageant winner 2kXX** / **a genuine chance at world domination:** akira  
>  **the world’s deadliest creampuff:** haru


	2. Chapter 2

**> >in: “everyone’s opinions are bad and they should feel bad”- sakura futaba, 07/26, 10:58pm**

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_i’m just saying_

_in an even fight between akira and a stack of jellyfish it could go either way_

**> >from: the feds**

_That’s just rude to the jellyfish._

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_lol!!!!!_

_akira get rekd_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_listen here you lil shit_

_who solo’d a palace before the rest of you got good_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_you had morgana calling all the shots, don’t even_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_point_

_i could still knife a jellyfish tho_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_that’s where your fatal mistake is_

_once you’re close enough to knife it, it’s close enough to knife you_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_why are you going around giving knives to jellyfish_

_stop arming the sea life_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_guess i should go get that pocketknife back from inari then_

**> >from: the feds**

_You didn’t._

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_:3c_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_look if it’s already armed i’m gonna defend myself_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_if you can’t handle a stack of jellyfish, you can’t fight yusuke’s lobsters_

_and speaking of knifing lobsters_

_how’s ryuji?_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_he’s offended that you’re still bringing that up_

_“it was one time”_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_i still have the pictures_

_remember how his sunglasses made that perfect print around his face_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_who could forget_

_ow he’s beating me_

_police_

**> >from: the feds**

_Out of my jurisdiction, you’re on your own._

_Also, you’re an ex-convict. Have some pride and defend yourself._

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_conviction overturned i am and have always been an innocent man_

_tell ryuji to stop laughing_

_i am the most innocent_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_tell him to get on himself and talk_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_phone’s dead_

_forgot his charger_

_we’ll pick up one from junes tomorrow_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_if he starts humming the jingle again i want evidence_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_what’ll you pay for it_

_makoto don’t look_

**> >sakura futaba has renamed the chat “illicit backroom bargain bin”**

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_admin privs for two weeks_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_absolutely not_

_i want beans_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_are you out already?!_

_akira, we just sent you a tin two weeks ago_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_and i ate them_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_you did NOT._

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_finals were rough_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_AKIRA._

_YOU DID NOT._

_SOJIRO WILL MURDER YOU._

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_i lov the cronch_

**> >from: the feds**

_You’re going to die before you’re thirty._

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_but i’ll be so pretty at my funeral_

 

 

 

Being in Inaba is supposed to be relaxing.

That’s what people _do_ to relax, they go to the countryside and chill out in the fresh mountain air and look at trees and stuff. Being in Inaba usually _is_ relaxing; Ryuji doesn’t know what’s so different about this stay, but he’s four days in and wound tighter than an industrial spring.

He’s done everything they usually do; stay up late (despite Morgana’s complaints), sleep in until the afternoon, eat junk food and play video games and poke around Junes looking for the weirdest thing you can buy for under ¥500. He’s helped Akira sweep and mop every floor in the house, washed and dried all the dishes after dinner every evening, even tidied up the flowerbed at the front of the house.

Normally, that would leave him an exhausted puddle in his futon every night.

Now? The quiet, easy pace gets under his skin and rattles.

It scrapes at his nerves, stretching him thin and fragile. The walls of Akira’s house are both comfortable and confining. He wakes with the sun and lays on the spare futon watching the shadows trace patterns up the wall, hearing Akira’s easy breathing, trying to slow the endless spiral of his thoughts.

Akira notices, of course. No matter how much he can try to hide, Akira sees through him.

On the fifth day, Akira’s alarm goes off at 8am, startling Morgana awake and making Ryuji roll over in consternation. Akira is _allergic_ to alarms over breaks; he’ll keep the same schedule either way, but when he wakes up, he wants to do it on his terms.

Yet here he is, levering himself upright and scrubbing his hands through his bedhead, sleep-ruffled and out of it. Ryuji can’t help but snicker a little, then a little more when Akira turns his bleary gaze downwards. “Your hair,” he says in explanation, waving a hand uselessly; it’s almost completely flat on one side, bushed out like a startled cat on the other. “You need a haircut.”

“Mmnh,” says Akira, and yawns long and loud enough that Ryuji can _hear_ his jaw cracking. Morgana copies him from his perch at the foot of the bed, rising to stretch fore and aft and then bounding his way out of the room.

Now that everyone’s awake, Ryuji doesn’t feel as bad about getting up. He tidies up while Akira’s still getting his bearings, folding the futon and tucking it close to the wall . By then Akira’s graduated to standing, swaying back and forth as he arches backwards with his arms over his head.

His back pops; his shoulders pop. It’s appalling. “What are you doing every night, weightlifting in your sleep?” Ryuji asks in sheer disbelief.

“Yeah,” Akira croaks, “carrying your useless weight at Mario Kart. Stay on the road.”

With that cryptic statement he makes his shambling way towards the bathroom, leaving Ryuji to laugh, a little bewildered, under his breath.

He changes in the guest bathroom down the hall, taking a piss and brushing his teeth with water to get rid of his morning breath. When he bends down to spit, his hair catches his eye; he puffs out his cheeks and tilts his head, scrubbing a hand through, parting it this way and that. Yeah, just as he’d thought; he should have re-dyed his roots before he left Tokyo. By the end of the summer he’s gonna look like a _mess_. No way he’s gonna risk wrecking one of Akira’s sinks or any of his towels, either. He’ll suffer.

His vanity takes him longer than he realizes. When he makes his way down to the kitchen, Akira is already there in a loose t-shirt and leggings, the leftover rice from last night microwaved and steaming on the counter. Morgana is already eating what looks like sardines and egg. Kinda gross, in his opinion, but then again he isn’t a sentient semi-magical cat-creation from another dimension, so to each their own.

He takes a seat at the counter, lets his feet swing idly as he rests his hands in his palms. They’ve already worked out breakfast rules; if one of them is cooking, the other won’t butt in, they’ll just do the dishes at the end. (This rule may or may not have been made when Ryuji, trying to flavor an omurice on day 2, tipped half a bottle of soy sauce into the egg mixture and then forced himself to eat it. It’s best for everyone this way.)

He blinks, long and slow; when he looks up again, Akira’s fussing with the French press on the corner of the counter, Ryuji’s favorite mug in front of him. The scent of coffee hits him a moment before Akira slides it underneath his nose; he inhales. It’s not the same as Leblanc—there, the coffee scent is infused into every bit of the walls, coming at you from every direction. Here, it’s fresh and a little out of place.

The coffee is a promising shade of light brown when he looks at it; sometimes Akira skimps on the cream and the sugar, trying to “enlighten his tastebuds” a little more. Not this time, though. He sips it, a little wary, and sighs in satisfaction. “Nice.” It’s not bitter at all, rich and mellow like a high-quality hot chocolate.

“Yeah,” Akira agrees, and sets a bowl of rice with egg in front of him. “Eat up. We’re on a schedule.”

This is the first Ryuji’s heard of it. “We are?”

“Mm.” He takes the seat  next to Ryuji with his own bowl and mug. They eat in silence after that, but it’s comfortable, not oppressive; Ryuji doesn’t feel pressured to fill it.

Although, he does do a double-take when he realizes Akira’s hair is pulled back into a tiny, stubby ponytail at the back. “Dude. _Haircut._ ”

“Pot, kettle,” Akira mumbles around his chopsticks, tapping Ryuji in the center of the forehead with the non-foody end. “I’ll get around to it. Sides, I want it out of my face. You done?”

Ryuji is. He does the dishes while Akira puts things away; when he’s done, Akira beckons him towards the front door. “Grab whatever you want to run with,” he says, rummaging through a closet, “we won’t be back till lunch.”

“For reals? We’re going running till lunch?” Ryuji asks, eyebrows raised. “That’s a little optimistic for you.”

Akira stills, then rears back out of the closet, faux outrage on his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You couldn’t even keep up with me a few days ago.” Ryuji can’t help but grin at the memory, slouching against the closet door, and laughs when Akira makes a disgruntled noise. “You don’t even _like_ running, man. You’ll do it, but you complain. You didn’t even like it in the Metaverse.”

“Course I didn’t like it in the Metaverse. When I was running in the Metaverse, it’s cause something wanted to murder me. Catch.” A helmet comes flying out of the closet. Ryuji barely manages to grab it. “Check it for spiders.”

“Not funny.” He does; there aren’t any, just dust. “We gonna run in helmets?”

“You don’t think it’d be a good workout?”

“I think I’d wanna scalp myself by five minutes in.”

“Alright, we won’t run in them.” Even as he says that, he pulls another helmet from the depths of the closet. “Hold this one too, please.”

Ryuji does. They’re round and grey; ugly, utilitarian things that don’t look like they get a lot of use. A mild sense of unease starts bubbling in the pit of his stomach. “Uh, Akira?”

“Yeah?” He pulls a soft cloth bag about the size of a kitchen trash can out; it’s got straps like a backpack and has something in it, but Ryuji has no clue what it would be. He takes it when Akira hands it to him, though, and it’s surprisingly light. “You’ll have to wear that on the way. You won’t be able to hold on to me if I’m wearing it.”

Yeah, that about confirms his suspicions. “Do you even have your license?”

“Course I do. Even took the course and everything. It’ll be perfectly safe, and if it’s not, that’s what the helmets are for.”

“How are we even gonna fit on a one-seat scooter together?” Ryuji asks, a little exasperated. “We’re two regular-sized dudes; maybe if we were like, chicks or somethin’ we could squeeze in real tight—“

“We can do that even if we’re not girls, you know,” Akira says.

He says it so neutrally that it takes Ryuji a moment to register exactly _how_ neutrally, and by then Akira’s taken the helmet from his hands and shoved it onto his head. “Besides,” he adds while Ryuji sputters and readjusts it, “it’s a two-seater. You’ll still have to hold on, but you won’t have to be on my lap.”

“Alright, alright.” He raises his hands in surrender. “It’s not a big deal, as long as my legs don’t hang off the sides and you end up runnin’ over my feet.”

“I can almost guarantee that won’t happen. C’mon.”

It’s not as awkward as Ryuji had thought it would be.

Sure, it’s definitely still a little awkward—his hands resting on either side of Akira’s waist, the bulky bag on his back, the helmet obscuring his vision—but Akira’s right, he doesn’t have to plaster himself tight to his back. He does have to sit close enough that his nose almost brushes the back of Akira’s helmet, but after the first lap around the neighborhood it’s not that bad.

They don’t go as fast as a car, but they definitely go faster than Ryuji thinks a scooter this size should go. It’s a little nerve-wracking and a little exhilarating at the same time.

It’s about half an hour’s ride to the beach. There’s only a few people there; an elderly couple fishing off the rocks, a younger couple farther down, poking around in the tide pools. They dangle the helmets off the handlebars and tuck the bag between the front and back wheels to keep it from blowing away.

After the first few steps on the sand, Ryuji understands why Akira’s brought them here to run.

Every step is harder than usual; when he pushes forward, the sand slides away from him instead of pushing back. He feels heavier after just a few paces. Akira cocks his head; Ryuji grins and nods.

The breeze coming off the water is just enough to be refreshing rather than challenging. He follows in Akira’s steps at first, a light easy jog that doesn’t even bring sweat to his brow. They get a kilometer or so down the beach before Akira turns, moving down to the damp sand left uncovered by low tide. The footing is more stable; Ryuji ducks his head and digs his toes in, coming up to Akira’s side.

They’ve both got earbuds in, so they don’t talk, but Akira does raise his eyebrows and speed up.

A challenge, eh? Ryuji’s down with that. He pulls up again, not even breathing hard, gratified to see a bead of sweat at Akira’s temple. The top of his hair isn’t long enough to fit in the ponytail at the back; it blows into his eyes with the breeze, enough that Akira bats at it in annoyance.

They hit where they started and turn back up the beach into the lighter sand. This time Ryuji pulls in front, kicking up puffs of sand every time his feet hit the ground. He feels them flick against his bare ankles, tumbling uselessly off to the side; he sees but doesn’t hear Akira quicken his pace until they’re side by side again.

By the time they hit their turning point (their footprints are the only ones on the damp sand; no one has been this far today but them) there’s a hint of strain in Ryuji’s lungs, a prickle of sweat at the back of his neck. He’s wholly centered in himself, the pounding of his heart, the drag of air in and out of his lungs, the flash of Akira’s teeth as he smacks his shoulder and takes off sprinting, the garbled noise of laughter Ryuji makes as he chases.

Neither of them are giving it their all, which means Akira turns onto the dry sand before Ryuji catches up, challenge again in his eyes and in his smirk. The next time they hit the turning point Ryuji is off like a shot, his stride stretching longer and longer until it feels like he’s floating, like he’s flying, feet barely touching down except to give him another nudge forward. It’s his favorite state of being; he hasn’t been able to run like this since before graduation, since before—

He’s passed their starting point, he realizes abruptly, and wheels around, slowing his pace once he’s back on dry sand. Akira’s about ten meters behind him, but he’s not even trying to match Ryuji’s speed; it looks like he’s laughing as he turns up onto the dry sand as well.

They go again, but Ryuji doesn’t try to reach top speed this time. Akira’s starting to look a little strained, face flushed, bangs sticking to his forehead in curls and locks, and Ryuji’s finally had to start breathing through his mouth as well. They turn again, and he really feels the burn in his calves and his thighs, not used to the constant adjustment it takes to run on sand.

This time when they reach the starting point Akira veers away and trots over to where they’ve left their bag. He tosses a water bottle to Ryuji, who chugs half of it straight off and then dumps a little more onto the crown of his head, shivering as it trails down his neck. He uses just a little more to splash the sweat off his face; when he looks up, Akira is watching him, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

It’s not the first time Akira’s looked at him like this. It’s not uncomfortable; actually, it feels kinda nice, like an ember glowing warm in the pit of his stomach instead of the constant haze of unease that’s been living there for the past few months. He likes having Akira’s full attention on him. It’s like an unexpected gift every time, one that he doesn’t deserve but cherishes anyway.

He takes a moment to look back. Akira’s still panting—Ryuji takes a moment to feel a little smug, _someone’s_ out of practice and that someone isn’t him—and while the red has mostly faded from his face, two spots high on his cheeks remain. His eyes are focused, dark like the water out far past the beach and just as opaque.

Ryuji looks away first, hearing his water bottle creak in his fist. Something about the look in his eyes makes him swallow, makes him want to brush the sand off his palms and the sweat off his face.

He doesn’t; he chugs the rest of the water in his bottle and stretches with a grunt. “Alright, what’s next?”

Akira grabs the bag and heads back towards the damp sand, knocking his elbow into Ryuji’s deliberately as he passes. “Ever done yoga at the beach before?”

“I’ve never done yoga at all,” Ryuji says, frowning.

“We’ll start off easy. Just follow what I do. You can keep your earbuds in if you want,” Akira adds over his shoulder, “but only if you let me pick what you listen to.”

When Ryuji shrugs and hands him his phone, Akira queues up a long playlist of nothing but the sound of ocean waves. He laughs at that, loud and sharp, and is rewarded with another flash of Akira’s smile as they pull the long, thin mats from the bag and set them up facing the water.

They start slow, sticking to the simpler stretches to loosen up after their 10k jog. Ryuji can barely reach his toes with his legs stretched out flat in front of him, but Akira folds like a sheet of paper, his forehead touching his knees and his fingers almost touching where he’s wrapped them around his feet.

After that come a series of moves that Ryuji feels a little ridiculous performing; sticking his butt up in the air like a dog, stretching his legs way out with one hand in the air, lying on his back with his shoulders flat on the mat and his hips raised. They all feel good, though; they stretch muscles he didn’t really know he had and leave him loose and warm.

Akira tells him to keep switching between them, mixing it up with whatever stretch he wants to do. The positions he starts contorting himself into make Ryuji _very_ glad he doesn’t have to follow along. Balancing on one leg is easy enough, but the way Akira folds himself over backwards [ until his head almost touches his feet ](https://www.yogajournal.com/.image/t_share/MTQ2MTgwNjczMDMyNzU4NzE3/201504-yjmag-kino-king-pigeon-pose-kapotasana.jpg) makes his spine hurt just watching.

Akira in leggings is objectively nice to look at. He’s flexible as all hell, and the bright red lines down his legs serve to highlight how long they are, whichever way they’re pointing.

A few minutes later he’s back in the dog pose, and Akira is[ balancing on his forearms with his legs in the air ](http://yogaposes8.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/supphead-jpg-1.jpg) when Ryuji’s phone rings. He fumbles getting it out of his pocket and it flops onto the mat, vibrating and spinning on the soft plastic. It’s his mother; Ryuji abruptly realizes he hasn’t so much as texted her since he got to Inaba.

“Hey,” he says, a little thin; he doesn’t want to break his pose, not now that he’s getting used to it. “You mind if I get this?”

“Go ahead,” says Akira, and his voice is absolutely even. It’s a little unfair; he’s still as a rock, even between the breeze and his legs pointing every which way like a model toy.

He’s so glad his earbuds have a microphone attached to the wire; all it takes is a tap on the screen and then he can put his hand right back on the mat where it belongs. “Hey, ma.”

 _“Good morning, Ryu-kun,”_ she says, and she’s gotta be in a good mood if she’s bringing out the baby names. He winces a little, eyes darting over to Akira; thank god he can’t hear her. _“How are you doing?”_

“Good. Real good.” Before he can elaborate, the call screen balloons out into a video chat, showing her sitting in the kitchen in her robe, her hair down around her ears. He can’t help but smile at how relaxed she looks. “Didja sleep in or something? Little late to be in your pjs.”

 _Pjs?_ Akira mouths beside him, eyes crinkling in mirth. Ryuji ignores him.

 _“Without you thumping around all hours of the morning, I thought I’d treat myself!”_ Her grin is the same as the one he sees in the mirror every day. _“Now look at you, all red and sweaty. What are you doing, hmm?”_ She waggles her eyebrows at him, sipping from her mug.

“Ma!” he hisses, scandalized. “We’ve been running, jeez. I’m not _that_ red.”

_“Ryu, baby, you should see yourself. You are that red.”_

He groans and plops down to his knees, folding himself into a butterfly stretch before he picks his phone up. “I was pretty much upside down. This any better?”

 _“Much!”_ She beams at him. _“I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”_

“No,” he says flatly, and she laughs. “We’re at the beach. Akira’s teaching me some yoga.” He turns the phone just enough so she can see Akira, still on his forearms, [ bending neatly into a square with one knee still in the air as a counterbalance ](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/cb/01/63/cb01638a8861b9f6ec45ccc74d360af5--yoga-music-yoga-shorts.jpg). “Say hi, Akira!” he adds with a grin, and Akira groans.

He does manage to free one hand enough to wave a little as he wheezes “Good morning, Sakamoto-san, how have you been?”

 _“Are you on speaker, Ryu?”_ He shakes his head, watching her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. _“Then tell him thank you for me, and that I’m doing quite well. And that he looks like he’s doing well for himself, too. I want to see you do that pose for me once you get back!”_

“Yeah, if you wanna tape my spine back together after,” Ryuji mutters, and Akira laughs once, just hard enough that he destabilizes his own balance and falls over into the sand. “Yeah, that’s what you get! I’m gonna take a walk.”

He leaves Akira still chuckling in the sand and heads down to the surf, toeing his shoes and socks off and tying the laces together to sling over his shoulders. He shows his mom the waves, grinning at her sigh. _“I haven’t seen the ocean in quite a long time,”_ she says, a little wistful. _“You enjoy it for me.”_

“I will, ma.”

 _“And, Ryu-kun…”_ She hesitates, and he raises an eyebrow. _“I know I’ve told you that I don’t want you leaving money for me.”_

He shakes his head all the way through her sentence, biting his lip. “Ma. It’s only fair that I help contribute.”

_“It’s admirable that you want to, baby, but—“_

“Ma,” he says again, lower. He can’t look at the screen, can’t look at her face, warm and worried for him. “I – I wanna help. Especially now.”

_“It’s not gonna be forever. I know you. I believe in you. And I would feel so much better knowing you’ve got that money in a savings account, rather than leaving it with me.”_

“Mama, please.” He kicks at the surf, hating how his shoulders have started hunching, hating the pings of shame sizzling up and down his spine. “It’s my fault anyway. You—you’ve done so much for me, at least let me give back now—“

 _“Baby, that’s my_ **_job._ ** _I’m your_ **_mother_ ** _, you don’t owe me jack shit.”_ Even when she’s swearing her voice is gentle. _“I’ll keep it for now, if that’s what you really want me to do, but once you come back to Tokyo…”_

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters.

_“You know I love you, right?”_

“Yeah. I know. Love you too.”

_“You’re a good boy, Ryuji. You’re growing into a good man. I’m proud of you, okay? Shoot me some pictures of Inaba, and I’ll call you next week.”_

“Alright, ma.” She kisses the screen, and he summons up a grin until she ends the call. Then he pockets the phone and stares out to sea, the waves rolling in and out over his feet, until Akira comes to get him.

 

 

He doesn’t even have to ask this time. When Akira cocks his head, Ryuji just shakes his. Akira nods, slings an arm around his shoulder and drags him back to the scooter, and that’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guide to group chat names:  
>  **coffee gremlin jr:** futaba  
>  **lobsterman:** yusuke  
>  **the feds:** makoto  
>  **japan’s next top model:** ann  
>  **a genuine chance at world domination:** akira  
>  **the world’s deadliest creampuff:** haru


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c

**> >in: illicit backroom bargain bin, 07/30, 9:14pm**

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

**_file sent:_ ** _a_blessing_to_you.img_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_have you been using that honey mask again? it really shows_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_it’s a little heavy for my complexion_

_mostly it’s a weekly sugar scrub and this seaweed-charcoal stuff i found at junes_

_sometimes i switch it up with a coffee scrub_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_you’re killing sojiro every time you say something like that and he doesn’t even know_

_he just walks down the street and suddenly_

_pain in his chest_

_he falls down_

_he can’t breathe_

_all because kurusu akira doesn’t know how to treat a good coffee bean to save his life_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_see i know you’re convinced i don’t actually have a heart_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_morgana’s told me how late you try to stay up!_

_if he hasn’t managed to find some way to stake you yet, no one will_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_but that actually makes me hurt a lil_

_hey i can’t be a vampire_

_i love garlic_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_yeah, and your own reflection_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_pwned!!_

**> >from: lobsterman**

_To be fair, it is a nice reflection._

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_thank you yusuke_

_it’s good to know that someone appreciates the lengths i go to for the aesthetic_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_your aesthetic called; it wants you to get a haircut_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_idk_

_i’ve been thinking about retooling my image_

_what do you think about: starbucks abomination_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_if you start going to starbucks and posting pictures i’m gonna tell sojiro_

_he’s gonna disown you_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_he’s gonna come to inaba and kick my ass_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_he’s gonna go back in time and leave you waiting in front of the prison_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_damn, girl_

_that’s savage_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_alright alright_

_in the hopes of keeping my inheritance intact_

_no starbucks_

_how about…soft emo_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_nothing about you is soft_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_lies and slander_

_my hair is very soft_

_so are my feelings_

_okay what about: pirate hipster_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_already taken_

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_fuck youre right_

_i gotta go tell ryuji hes gonna hate me_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_lol!!!_

_find a new aesthetics generator this one sucks_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_hey, where is ryuji anyway?_

_he hasn’t logged onto the group chat in ages_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_he logs on sometimes_

_he just doesn’t say anything_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_really? i haven’t seen him online_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_usually it’s at ass-o’clock in the morning_

_ryuji when you read this i want you to know_

_i’m judging you for your sleeping habits_

_and your everything else too tbh but mostly the sleeping habits_

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_same_

_you can’t hide behind akira forever_

_you’re too tall_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_all that coffee he drank in tokyo stunted his growth_

**> >from: lobsterman**

_Does that explain why you are so short, Futaba?_

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_i’m gonna reach through this screen and knock over all your paint water mugs inari i swear to god_

**> >from: lobsterman**

_You could certainly try, though if you managed to reach them I would be impressed._

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_fjsdklfjKDJKDFKFFSSH_

**_> >from: a genuine chance at world domination_ **

_okay i’m back_

_stop fighting or i’ll be the one to reach through the screen_

_and rearrange all your featherman dolls again_

**_> >from: coffee gremlin jr_ **

_good luck asshole, i’m behind seven proxies_

**_> >kurusu akira changed “coffee gremlin jr” to “national security’s tiniest threat”_ **

**_> >futaba sakura changed “national security’s tiniest threat” to “coffee gremlin jr”_ **

**_> >from: coffee gremlin jr_ **

_nice try bucko_

**_> >from: a genuine chance at world domination_ **

_dang it_

_wait shit no_

_i’ve got it_

_my one true aesthetic_

_kaleidoscope garbage_

**_> >from: coffee gremlin jr_ **

_*perfect*_

 

The 10k runs help.

The shorter jogs around the neighborhood take the edge off, sure, but Ryuji has always had more energy than  he knows what to do with; he feels like a dog stuck chasing its own tail half the time, circling over and over, close but never touching his goal. They still run around the neighborhood (and it makes something inside Ryuji’s chest warm to listen to Akira’s breathing start evening out the longer they go; this is how they started, after all, two guys running themselves into shape for the sake of saving themselves) but the hours on the beach chasing back and forth until his legs burn and his lungs ache and his shoes are full of sand center his thoughts and clear his mind like nothing else.

On the long-run days they never plan on doing much else. They eat breakfast and make lunch before they leave, spend hours on the beach running and doing yoga, and when dinner rolls around they end up at the ramen place more often than not. Akira was right when he said it wasn’t anything special, but eating it _with_ Akira after a long day of physical strain makes it feel special anyway.

The shorter days still leave him with too much time on his hands, even though Akira does his best to fill them. Since he doesn’t have a car, all the grocery shopping needs to be done on two legs. Akira’s got a little roll-y two-wheeled basket that he drags behind him if they need more than a bag or two of stuff; it’s kinda hilarious watching him push it up the road like a little old housewife when it’s full.

Ryuji doesn’t like the Junes bear. It feels like it’s watching him all the time. Especially in the electronics department, when he and Akira stop to stare at the massive TVs. He’s not _twelve,_ he knows better than to touch something that’d cost an arm and a leg, he just wants to _look._

“Remember how I was telling you about that weird year in middle school?” Akira asks him once, leaning on his roll-y basket and pushing it back and forth a few inches. “When people’d show up on TV and then get kidnapped?”

“Yeah?”

“I always wanted to be on TV. Thought it’d be the coolest thing ever.” He grins, crooked and wry, and Ryuji barks a too-loud laugh.

“You sure got your wish, bro,” he wheezes between his snickers, and Akira grins all the wider.

On grocery days, the runs happen after everything is unpacked and put away, and Akira’s usually lost enough of an edge that Ryuji all but dances circles around him. He’ll go up the road and back, circle around Akira’s slow-slug jog, make a joke or elbow him in the side and hop back before Akira’s retaliation can hit him.

Sometimes they’ll head up into the mountain trails, jogging beside the river and hopping from rock to rock. Sometimes they’ll stay in town, always ending up at the gas station, or Junes, or the vending machines that line that one street for a drink.

Inaba is rainy in the summer, though, and that means that Ryuji gets stuck inside more often than he’d like to be. On rainy days he can’t help but pace back and forth, scrolling uselessly through things on his phone (news, weather, old phan-site, more news, more weather…) or flopping down in the living room to do whatever stationary exercises he can.

Akira is all too willing to sit on his back while he does push-ups, and Morgana is all too willing to hop up as well. This makes for a great workout, but when Akira refuses to move it also makes for a heavy landing when his elbows give out.

(He laughs every time, though.)

(It makes him feel better, being close to Akira like this, like his place is still here at his side and not left behind while he moves on to bigger and brighter things. He’s always known Akira’s meant to burn bright like a star. He’s never begrudged that. But _god,_ he misses the closeness.)

When the rain finally ends it’s still too wet to go to the beach, so they take a day trip to Okina instead. Akira tells him it’s about as close as he can get to Tokyo; Ryuji tells him that that’s the saddest thing Akira’s ever said to him.

It’s really not that bad. There’s a movie theater that they visit after lunch, and a clothing store that has some of the gaudiest, tackiest pieces of clothing Ryuji’s ever seen; scarves, hats, glasses, and even fancy costumes. They horse around for an hour trying on more and more elaborate and hideous outfits, and when Akira stands in front of him in a Featherman onesie and wheezes, “Imagine if I’d made you wear this in the Metaverse,” Ryuji cackles loud enough that they’re asked to leave.

Akira tucks his phone away when they sit down at the coffee shop and wrinkles his nose at the smell. “It’s not _right,_ ” he says, “I don’t know _what_ they’re doing back there but this is _not_ what a coffeehouse should smell like.”

Ryuji sorta agrees. He’s been to Leblanc more recently than Akira has, at least, and even he can tell there’s something kinda strange about the smell. It’s even more apparent after the bald, dead-eyed waiter slides their cups in front of him; the coffee _vibrates_. But not when he’s looking at it, just when he’s looking away.

He refuses to touch it, especially after Akira jerks like he’s been zio’d after one sip. He reels until Ryuji gets him outside, laughing the whole way.

“So,” Akira says a day or so later. Ryuji looks up from where he’s dangling upside-down on the couch. “There’s gonna be a meteor shower in a few days. Wanna go camping?”

“Hell yeah,” Ryuji says enthusiastically, and so they go camping.

Morgana refuses to come along, mostly because Akira refuses to carry him; their bags are going to be full of supplies, and they’re not planning on staying in any particular established camping site. He loads Ryuji’s bag for him, but Ryuji watches how he does it and vows to pack it himself next time.

They’re not even going that far up the mountain, to be honest. Neither of them are the sort of experienced hikers that would do well making their own trail, and neither of them have shoes that would be suited for going all that cross-country. Ryuji doesn’t even _own_ hiking boots, and Akira’s lone pair would be too small for him anyway. But Akira’s done two class clean-up trips up the mountain, plus the odd outing with a friend every now and then, and he swears up and down that he knows the perfect site to watch the meteor shower.

Ryuji’s never actually seen a shooting star before, but if he’s being absolutely honest most of the allure of this outing comes from the fact that he’ll get to have Akira all to himself for a while.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Morgana—far from it, they’re buddies now, enough that sometimes he’ll wake up to Morgana curled up in the small of his back (or, once, with all four paws stretching hard enough into his face to push him off of his own pillow), but Akira is his _best_ friend. Sure, they run and do yoga and go to Junes and stuff together, but back at the house Morgana is always there.

He’s nicer than he used to be, but some of the things he says feel like they’re calculated to rub right on Ryuji’s raw spots. Not enough that he can call him out on it though, cause that would mean acknowledging that there _are_ raw spots, and something to have raw spots over.

Worse than that, he keeps making fun of Ryuji’s hair.

It’s not like he doesn’t _know_ he looks like an idiot. There’s at least a quarter-inch of black root showing now. He looks _awful._

That’ll be another nice thing about this camping trip; no mirrors. No mirrors, no overly-critical cat, no problems.

They don’t run into many other people on the hike up, just a couple families taking day-trips. Even on the trail, the ground is so springy under their feet that it feels like it’s propelling them onward, upward, further. They make easy conversation, but even Ryuji falls quiet after half an hour or so, luxuriating in the sound of birdsong and the warm summer sunshine on his face and arms.

At a rest stop on an overlook they take a break for lunch (peanut butter, potato chip, and banana sandwiches for Ryuji, two big granola bars and a handful of trail mix for Akira). The view is amazing. From here they can see the whole of the town nestled into the valley beneath them, the gentle slopes of the mountains beyond stretching out into the distance. The sun glitters fiercely on the winding trail of the Samegawa, so bright Ryuji has to squint if he looks for too long.

Akira squints too, but his eyes are fixed on the sky above instead of the ground below. “Looks like some clouds rolling in,” he says, clearly offended. “The weather report said they won’t last through the evening, so we should have at least _some_ clear sky tonight, but still…”

“Well, hey—“ Ryuji pauses for another mouthful, chews thoughtfully, swallows to clear the peanut butter out of his mouth. “At least it’s not rain?”

“Don’t even say that, you’ll jinx it.” It’s said playfully, accompanied by a gentle punch to the shoulder. They both know there’s no call for rain until much later on in the week. “Tonight’s the best night to view the shower, but if push comes to shove we can stay till tomorrow. They’d best be gone by then.” He fixes the sky with a look that, if it had possessed the power, would have sent the clouds scurrying.

“Oooh, look at me,” Ryuji says in a delicate falsetto, relishing Akira’s groan. “I’m Kurusu Akira, and I think that I can dictate the weather just because I personally shot God in the face.”

He relishes even more that Akira chokes on his sip of water and ends up spraying it all over the grass. His laughter is loud enough that it stifles the birdsong.

They find their campsite by late afternoon. It’s a quiet place not far from the main trail, a shaded clearing that flattens out into a low, wide field of knee-high grass. Beyond the field the mountains rise up in gentle mounds, making the whole thing feel comfortably enclosed.

They split their tasks—Akira goes to find dry wood for a tiny campfire while Ryuji sets up the tent. It’s a process made more difficult by the fact that he’s never actually set up a tent before, but he’s determined to make do. It can’t be that difficult, right?

…except that there’s all these thin rods that are supposed to fit together, and some of them have to criss-cross, and he’s fairly sure that tents are supposed to be 3D and stay upright, not mostly flat and listing to one side…maybe he’s supposed to prop it open from the inside first? Or maybe the whole thing is inside out? Maybe if he tucks the rods in the corners _there_ and stands _here_ and pushes _up—_

That’s not the correct answer. That’s not the correct answer in the _slightest_ and his ‘nads pay the price _._ Luckily, by the time Akira gets back, Ryuji’s finished his pained hopping and swearing and whimpering and progressed onward to sullen glaring and muttering.

Gathering wood is the better job anyway. He heads off in the opposite direction that Akira came from, answering his “Don’t go too far!” with a wave and a grunt. (He still doesn’t trust his voice. Effin’ _hell,_ that shit _hurts._ )

The light is failing by the time he comes back with a sizeable armload; he dumps it next to Akira’s pile and tries not to feel miffed at the neat and tidy tent waiting for him. Akira’s even got the groundcloth tacked down and everything, the fire going in a circle of stones well away from the trees or any grass. Their bags are already tucked inside, sleeping bags rolled out side by side—

“Uh, hey,” Ryuji says, aiming for casual, “isn’t this tent a little, y’know, small for the two of us?”

“It’s the only one we had smaller than a four-person,” Akira shrugs. “And our four-person tent weighs nineteen kilos. Is it a problem?”

Ryuji’d been the one carrying the tent; he winces at the thought. “Nah, course not. Long as you don’t mind me accidentally kicking you in the night or somethin’.”

“I’ll kick back,” Akira threatens, but his grin takes the bite out of it.

And honestly, when Ryuji furtively wriggles into the tent to try it out, it’s a lot roomier than he expected. Wide enough that their shoulders will have a few inches of space when they lie down. Narrow enough that they’ll have to lay with one person across the entrance instead of both their heads to it, but as long as the one on the inside doesn’t have to get up to take a leak it shouldn’t be an issue.

Dinner is simple but hearty; the dehydrated food packs they’d bought from Junes. Akira’s is chili mac and cheese, Ryuji’s is pepper steak and rice; they both grimace a bit at first bite. Not the tastiest of meals, but not the worst, either.

Once the fire is smothered to death, Akira hangs an electric lantern from a tree above the tent. The night air is chill enough that Ryuji wishes he’d brought his hoodie up with them, especially when Akira makes a show of pulling his on over his head.

It’s alright, though. He warms up enough walking down the gentle slope to the field. Before they break through the treeline, though, Akira grabs his arm and pulls him to a stop. “Look,” he says quietly.

Ryuji’s glad he stopped him.

The clouds have almost disappeared. The stars burn white-hot above them in a sky dark and soft as velvet. There’s just enough ambient illumination to highlight the rolling sides of the mountains surrounding them, the condensation that rises off of hidden streams along their slopes rising ghostly-pale towards the sky. The wind is nothing more than a gentle breath, rustling the trees and the grass in quiet accompaniment.

And in the field below, hundreds of fireflies glimmer and flash, a haunting, beautiful echo of the sky above.

“Nice,” Ryuji breathes in awe. He’s never seen anything like it before, never been anywhere that feels so _peaceful._ He doesn’t know how to describe it, only that he wants to take a picture of this moment and weld it into his memory forever, to have this little corner of peace and quiet with him always.

He can’t help but turn to Akira, wishing he could express it more, but words have never been his strong suit.

Then again, he and Akira have never really needed words, have they? Akira’s eyes meet his, and even in the dark he can make out the flash of Akira’s teeth as he grins and pulls Ryuji into the open field.

The meteor shower is a sight beyond words.

It’s not what Ryuji expects, which was the whole sky lighting up in brilliant flashes like lightning. It’s more subdued, almost a blink and you’ll miss it event repeated over and over and over. The stars trace thin, white-hot lines like scars across the dark sky, blazing up in an instant of glory just to fall dark again. Akira is a warm weight against his side; Ryuji can feel every breath he takes, every time he lifts his arm to point out a new streak.

It’s sorta hypnotic, staring deep into the sky and chasing streaks of light back and forth, so he jumps a bit when Akira says, “You should make a wish.”

“Make a wish?” he echoes, and feels Akira nod. “What, like wish on a falling star?”

“Yeah. It comes true, y’know.”

“What, you wish on a lotta falling stars?”

“Enough,” Akira shrugs, “and a bunch of them came true.”

Despite himself, Ryuji is intrigued, and tilts his head back just enough to see the side of Akira’s face. Akira’s eyes stay fixed on the sky above. “Like what?”

It’s a moment before he answers. “Like… well. Kid stuff.”

“Kid stuff.” He turns to face Akira fully, but Akira won’t meet his eyes. “Like, what, a new bike? Good grades?”

“Mostly for mom and dad to stop fighting,” Akira admits after a moment, and Ryuji’s expression falls. “Hey, no, none of that. They did, eventually. And yeah, a new bike, which I also got.”

When Ryuji doesn’t respond Akira leans into him hard enough that he has to catch himself before he falls over. “Don’t mope.”

“I’m not!”

“You are. You’ve really never wished on a star?”

“Can’t see many stars in Tokyo,” Ryuji says, “and we didn’t get outta the city all that much.”

Akira hums in response. “There was a girl a year above me in elementary school,” he says after a moment. “Her dad’s a detective here in Inaba—“

“What’s the point?” Ryuji mutters. Akira laughs under his breath.

“I know, I know. He came around for career day once or twice in middle school. But this girl, she went into the hospital for a while, that winter that all the disappearances were happening. You know how kids are, they pick up on little things and turn them into superstitions? Once she came back, everyone swore up and down that she wished on a star and it healed her.”

“That’s—“

“Don’t say dumb—“

“du—stupid.”

“Ha.”

“Shut up, you don’t know me.”

“Of course I know you.”

Ryuji doesn’t have an answer to that. He doesn’t really have a wish either, but as they watch the cosmos in comfortable silence, something vague and unformed bubbles at the back of his mind.

If he could take this whole night, the sky and the stars and the wind and the fireflies and Akira’s warm, solid weight next to him—if he could take them all and bottle them up, store them all neat and tidy next  to him forever, he’d never need to wish for anything else.

Eventually the cold gets to the both of them. They heave themselves up and dust themselves off, and when Ryuji starts shivering Akira shrugs out of his hoodie and pulls it over Ryuji’s head.

Safely back in the dark of their tent, nestled into their respective sleeping bags, Akira says, “So, what did you think?”

Ryuji takes a moment to think about it. He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with his hands resting on his stomach; out of the corner of his eye he sees Akira roll over to face him. “There’s just so much up there, y’know? Planets and galaxies and stars and meteors ‘n shit, all whizzing around without caring that there’s people down here. That _I’m_ down here. I’ve never felt so…small.”

“Yeah,” Akira says, and it sounds like agreement. “Cosmic indifference is pretty unnerving, isn’t it?”

“It just makes everything feel so….” He struggles for the word. “Like nothing matters. Like nothing I do, or have done, or will do, matters.” And doesn’t _that_ hit a little too close to home. He swallows a little roughly. Shit, what’s he getting all bummed out for now? Everything’s fine—great, really, he’s got Akira all to himself in one of the most beautiful, calming settings that he’s ever been in. There’s no reason for this sudden mood swing, and definitely no reason to let Akira know about it.

He sees Akira prop himself up on his elbow, nothing but a silhouette, and allows himself a moment of sour chagrin. He doesn’t _have_ to let Akira know about it, because like usual Akira _already_ knows.

“You know,” Akira says, and his voice is so calmly neutral that it makes Ryuji tense in an immediate flight response, “you’ve done a lot that matters.”

“Yeah?” Shit. He can’t really keep the ragged edge out of his voice. “Like what?”

“Well, for one thing, you helped me shoot God in the face. There’s something you can put on your resume.”

Ryuji knows, he _knows_ it’s meant in jest, supposed to lighten up his spirits and bring a smile to his face, but all it does instead is bring the awareness of what he once had crashing to the forefront of his mind.

It’s gone. It’s _gone._ He’s never going to roam the Metaverse again. He’s never going to have electricity dancing under his fingertips and across his skin. He’s never going to trade a high five just to launch himself forward towards something otherworldly with the express intent of beating its face in. He’s never going to watch Akira swish his stupid coat behind him and stalk away like a smug-ass cat with a whole liter of cream. He’s never going to summon a Persona again.

He’s never going to do anything _worthwhile._

He’s eighteen years old, and he’s already done the most important thing he’ll ever do, and while everyone else has managed to pick themselves up and move forward with their lives, he’s fallen behind.

Eighteen years old and he’s got nowhere to go but down, and rock bottom has never made the sweet air in Inaba taste so bitter.

Eighteen years old, and the shreds of the letter informing him just how badly he failed his entrance exams still sit in a bag in his closet in Tokyo, fueling every shame-filled breath of his shame-filled life.

“Ryuji,” Akira says beside him. He feels fingers brush the side of his face.

“I just—“ his voice cracks audibly as he swallows, and his face is hot and his throat is thick and god, fuck, _no,_ there’s heat trying to prickle at the corner of his eyes, and he rolls onto his back and stares at the tent ceiling and swallows, blinks, tries to force it down

and Akira’s hand lands on his bare arm and curls around his wrist and squeezes

and he breathes

and he breathes

and just like that he’s crying, big ugly gasping sobs that shudder through his whole body, and he tries to roll over, to curl up away from Akira, because _god_ he’s already a worthless loser, he never wanted Akira to see him break down like an effin’ _baby_ —

but Akira won’t let go

he doesn’t let go of his hand, and he pulls Ryuji over, and his other arm wraps around his back, palm flat at his neck, tucks him into his shoulder and just _holds_ him.

It’s awful.

It’s awful and humiliating and he tries to rear back in panic, snot already dripping all over his face, but Akira makes a wordless soothing noise and lets go of his wrist to wrap both arms around him, rolls over to pin him with an arm and a leg, and Ryuji slaps at his arms, digs his fingers into his shirt and pulls, thrashes like a dying fish, and Akira _doesn’t let go._

He doesn’t let go.

No matter the fact that Ryuji is a worthless piece of garbage, he doesn’t let go.

He hates this, he _hates_ this; he tried _so hard_ , he spent _so long_ studying and cramming both with Ann and on his own, wasted hours and days with his fingers clenched white-knuckled around a pen carving useless words into his notebooks. He wanted to be there with his friends, he wanted to move on, he wanted to make sure that he didn't end up like his fucking useless deadbeat dad but in the end there was never really any point; blood is blood, and Ryuji’s just as much of a dumb shit as everyone ever told him he was.

He always knew Akira would outpace him eventually, and this just proves it; no matter how free he feels next to him, he can't keep his place by Akira's side if he _can't fucking keep up._

But Akira doesn't let go.

He holds Ryuji through the worst of it like an anchor, keeping him grounded, and eventually Ryuji runs dry. The sobs turn to deep, shuddering breaths; his fists, clenched tight into the back of Akira’s shirt, fall loose to curl emptily. His face feels swollen. He can’t breathe through his nose. Under his cheek, Akira’s shirt is soaked with tears and slime.

Maybe he senses the mood shift; maybe he just feels as gross as Ryuji does. Either way, Akira’s grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. One hand stays around Ryuji, keeping him close; maybe he knows that if he does let his hand fall away, Ryuji will fly apart at the seams.

The other skims along his cheek below his eye, wiping away the last of the moisture there.

It’s pleasantly cool on his overheated face. He leans into it; Akira sighs above him, and the touch comes again, the backs of his fingers dragging slowly down his cheek, once, twice. “Hey,” Akira says, and he sounds rough, gravelly almost. “Can you—lift your head, just a bit.”

Ryuji doesn’t want to argue, but he also doesn’t want to move. When Akira coaxes him again he grunts, but he gives in. He’s rewarded with another gentle touch to the face; it feels like the pad of his thumb, a little rough, a little soft. Like Akira himself, distilled down to a single point, a fingerpad on a face.

He’s abruptly aware of how exhausted he is and how gross he feels when Akira withdraws his hand. Ryuji shifts back, and Akira lets him. “I’m gonna,” he says softly, propping himself up on one side, “take off my shirt, alright? It’s a little, uh…” He trails off, and Ryuji nods. He doesn’t open his eyes.

There’s some rustling; Akira’s knee meets his side and rests there, a warm point of pressure as the comforting weight of his arm lifts. A sharp, soft crack; then something wet and cold touches Ryuji’s face. He jumps, grimacing. Akira huffs a laugh. “Sorry. We don’t have any tissues or towels. It’s just the clean side of my shirt sleeve, okay?”

He dabs at Ryuji’s face again. It was nicer when it was just his hand, but each pass of the sleeve makes his skin feel a little less tight, makes his face feel a little less like an overfull balloon.

“Hey,” he says again after a moment. “Sit up. Drink the rest of this water.”

It’s a struggle, but he manages it, not in the least because Akira’s hand rests on the small of his back and his shoulder rests against his own. He’s not thirsty until the water hits his mouth; then he’s parched, draining the whole thing without a single breath. As he drinks Akira messes with the sleeping bags; he hears zipping and unzipping, but it doesn't really register. When he’s done Akira takes the bottle from his unresisting hand, turns to toss it towards their bag at the foot of the tent, then draws him near again.

He doesn’t fight it this time. He goes willingly, his forehead landing in the crux of Akira’s neck like it was made for him. His skin is so cool against his face; he presses closer, sighing as Akira cards his fingers through his hair. He doesn't say thank you, but he does lift his hand to take Akira's wrist loosely. Akira twists it and trails his thumb down Ryuji's palm, a soft gesture, comforting.

They make it horizontal again with a minimum of fuss. Akira’s zipped the sleeping bags together; it’s cozy but not cramped, and it makes it much more comfortable for Ryuji to get his arms around Akira’s torso and press as close as he can. The cradle of Akira's shoulder and neck fits his forehead like it was made for him. Akira's body curls around him, the open parentheses to his closing one. They have to lay close enough that their legs tangle, one of Akira's calves slotting neatly between his own. Akira arranges him to his own content.

“Ryuji,” he says barely above a breath, words meant just for the two of them. “Listen. As long as I live, wherever I go, your place will always be next to me. No one else can take that spot. It's been yours since the first time you stood there. Okay?”

“‘kay,” Ryuji mumbles into his neck, ducking further into the cool skin of his shoulder.

“No, I mean it.” There's a warm calloused hand cupping the back of his neck and an arm firm around his shoulders and a brief pressure at the top of his head that he'll think about when he can. “We'll get through this. I mean, we shot God in the face, I think we can manage to get you through a ronin year, yeah?”

He's exhausted enough that his laugh comes out more like a wet huff. It comes across, though; Akira gives him a squeeze and Ryuji squeezes back twice as tight. “It's gonna be okay,” Akira says, butter-smooth and pillow-soft and sugar-sweet, and that pressure on his forehead comes and goes again.

Here in this moment, in this tent, in these arms, Ryuji can almost believe it.

 

 **> >in: group chat 2, 08/14, 2:31am** ****  
**> >from: kurusu akira** ****  
fuck  
  
**> >from: takamaki ann** ****  
_what?_  
**  
** **> >from: kurusu akira** ****  
_he finally talked_  
_a little_  
**  
** **> >from: sakura futaba** ****  
_how is he?_  
  
** >>from: kurusu akira ******  
_not great_  
_won’t lie_  
_but maybe a little better now_  
**  
** **> >from: nijima makoto** ****  
_That’s good to hear._  
  
** >>from: kurusu akira ******  
_idk how people do this_  
_i just want to wrap him up in something_  
_and tell him itll be ok_  
_and then_ **_make_ ** _it be ok_  
**  
** **> >from: sakura futaba** ****  
_gay_  
_and by gay i mean that’s really sweet and i’m sure ryuji appreciates it_  
**  
** **> >from: kurusu akira** ****  
_i hope so_  
  
** >>from: nijima makoto** ****  
_You should get some rest, Akira._  
**  
** **> >from: kurusu akira** ****  
_yeah_  
_actually why are you all awake anyway_  
**  
** **> >from: sakura futaba** ****  
_movie night_  
**  
** **> >from: kurusu akira** ****  
_fair nuff_  
_don’t stay up too late_  
**  
** **> >from: takamaki ann** ****  
_go to sleep, akira!_  
**  
** **> >from: kurusu akira** ****  
_when did you all become my mom_  
  
** >>from: sakura futaba** ****  
_now, before i turn on the bugs in your phone again and listen in on all your conversations_  
**  
** **> >from: kurusu akira** **  
**_whoops look at the time gotta go bye_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _:3c_  
>  let me just go ahead and add that little "/" there shall i
> 
> i have been so excited to write this chapter since i started this work, and i really really hope i've done it justice. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~~this just in, canticle is literally incapable of writing continually platonic pegoryu~~


	4. 4.1: ryuji has feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is technically the first half of chapter 4, as in the last few weeks it's ballooned into an 18,000 word monster that's gone completely out of my control. the other half will very likely be posted within the next few days.

**_> >in: group chat 2, 08/15, 11:49pm_ **

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ in light of recent events _

_ i have one statement and one question: _

_ i feel like i’m missing something _

_ am i an idiot _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ that depends _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ well _

_ you know how i said we talked _

_ we talked a lil more _

_ ish _

_ but the thing is _

_ you know what the first thing he did when we got home was _

**_> >from: okumura haru_ **

_ Take a shower? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ well _

_ yeah actually _

_ but when he came back down he was _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ naked? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ might’ve been better _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ wait is this going where I think it’s going? _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ if it is I need popcorn _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ guys. _

_ cmon. _

_ here i am laying myself bare to you _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ like ryuji? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ he wasn’t naked! _

_ he was wearing the sad hoodie _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ what the fuck _

_ why do you still have that _

**_> >from: okumura haru_ **

_ Pardon, but, what is the “sad hoodie?” _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ you remember after akira got caught by the police and everyone thought he was dead _

_ and when he went anywhere he wore that massive oversized grey hoodie _

_ and then he didn’t go  _ **_anywhere_ **

_ just stayed up in the attic wearing that hoodie and moping like a dead boy _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ hey being dead was hard _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ yeah yeah depression is a bitch _

_ but yeah _

_ that’s the sad hoodie _

_ the designated depression clothing _

_ at least tell me you’ve washed it since then _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ of course _

_ i’m not an animal _

_ but it was pretty far back in my closet _

_ he’s been in there before _

_ he’s def seen it _

_ but that means he deliberately went in there to get it _

_ and do you know what we did once he came down _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ idk but i’m sure you’re going to tell us… _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ well maybe now i won’t _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ okay, sorry, sorry! go on _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ look i don’t even know _

_ we just _

_ sat there _

_ on the couch _

_ and then he just sorta flopped over onto me _

_ and we stayed like that the whole rest of the day _

_ he’s been real quiet since then _

_ you know ryuji _

_ doesn’t shut up _

_ doesn’t stop moving _

_ i’ve done more running in the past month with him than i’ve done in the last year alone _

_ but today he just sat there _

_ in the hoodie _

_ on the couch _

_ we watched some movies and had some takeout pizzas but _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ skip to the good stuff already _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ okay fine _

_ jeez _

_ i like how he looks in my clothes _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ g _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ don’t _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ go on _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ it just makes me feel like i’m doing more for him than i actually am _

_ i know it’s dumb _

_ trust me _

_ but _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ wait wait what did I miss _

_ are you finally having the big bisexual freakout _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ what the actual fuck is that supposed to mean _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ akira, don’t even _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ first of all _

_ there is no freaking out _

_ second of all _

_ can’t a guy just appreciate his best friend in his clothing without feeling guilty about it _

_ girls do it all the time _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ yeah, because they like the way it looks on them _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ exactly _

_ he looks good in my shirts _

_ you of all people know how bad his taste in clothes is _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ does he look good in your pants tho _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ well yeah _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ :3c _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ no _

_ not like that _

_ like _

_ sure, he’s attractive, but all of you are attractive too _

_ doesn’t mean i’m attracted to you _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ okay but if say _

_ ann _

_ was wearing the sad hoodie _

_ would that make a difference in your reaction _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ probably not _

_ ann looks good in anything she chooses to wear _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ <33 _

_ okay but like _

_ you’re letting him stay in your home for a month and a half because he’s been miserable _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ i’d do that for any of you though _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ you’re hopeless _

_ in answer to your question: _

_ YES _

_ a resounding yes _

_ you are indeed an idiot _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ figured _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ akira _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ what _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ are you sure? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ … _

_ no _

_ and that’s what bothers me _

_ i’m always sure _

_ i’m supposed to  _ **_know_ ** _ , right? _

_ like _

_ he’s a good looking guy _

_ so’s yusuke _

_ do i want to date yusuke? no _

_ do i want to feed yusuke everything in my fridge? yes _

_ ann’s a good looking girl _

_ do i want to date ann? no _

_ do i want to take ann to okina and get coffee? yes _

_ haru and makoto are strong beautiful women _

_ do i want to date either of them? no _

_ do i appreciate that they’re strong beautiful women and respect them endlessly? yes _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ what about me _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ futaba is a computer gremlin _

_ do i respect her? no _

_ do i want to date her? no _

_ am i terrified of her? yes _

_ would i lay down my life for her? absolutely _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ you’re on thin ice but i’ll allow it _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ so, walk through it with me _

_ is ryuji attractive? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ aesthetically appealing _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ no, you don’t get to give non-answers right now _

_ yes or no _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ y _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ do you want to take him to okina for coffee? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ y _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ do you want to feed him everything in your fridge? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ some of it’s going bad _

_ so y but with reservations _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ do you respect him? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ y _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ are you afraid of him? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ n _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ if he just vanished from your life right now, would you miss him? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ y _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ enough to go looking for him? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ y _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ enough to invite him to live with you? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ y _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ enough to tell him that his place is beside you forever? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ y _

_ wait _

_ what the fuck how did you _

**_> >from: okumura haru_ **

_ Please let me interject for a moment, Akira-kun. _

_ It seems to me that you are trying to talk yourself out of something, rather than talk yourself into it. _

_ Would it be such a bad thing to love Ryuji? _

_ To be absolutely fair, back when we had just met, at first I had thought… _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ yeah, right?? even back then they were like _

_ tight _

**_> >from: sakura futaba_ **

_ thick as thieves _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ nice _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ it’s not that it’d be bad _

_ if i did _

_ its that i don’t  _ **_know_ **

_ i mean sure _

_ i want him beside me moving forward _

_ i want all of you there too _

_ you’re all the most important people in my life _

_ but at what point does it cross from “important” to “necessary” _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ hoo boy _

_ you’re really tying yourself into knots over this, aren’t you _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ of course i am _

_ literally four hours ago he said to me _

_ “i’m sorry for letting you down, man” _

_ he still feels like he has to apologize _

_ and i hate that _

_ and i told him he has no reason to apologize _

_ because it didn’t matter _

_ wherever he was, whatever he did, he’d always have my support _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ and you said that completely platonically? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ i don’t know! _

_ i don’t know. _

_ i thought it was but now... _

_ i’ve never felt like this. not even after shido. _

_ like I want to take someone and erase all the bad out of their world so they don’t have to be sad anymore. _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ hey, take two steps back and answer a quick question for me _

_ have you ever had a girlfriend? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ no? _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ boyfriend? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ also no? _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ ever wanted one? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ where is this all coming from _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ just checking _

_ answer the question _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ i _

_ uh _

_ huh. _

_ i mean, it’s never come up before _

_ never found anyone i liked like that in inaba _

_ you know how it is with small towns _

**_> >from: takamaki ann_ **

_ uh-huh. and once you got to tokyo? _

**_> >from: kurusu akira_ **

_ i was way too busy and also everyone thought i was a serial rapist drug addict murderer _

_ not the best start to a romance _

**> >from: takamaki ann**

_ right, right. _

_ that actually explains a little better _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ explains what _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ man, for a dude as charming as you supposedly are _

_ you really have no clue _

**> >from: takamaki ann**

_ you left a lot of girls disappointed when you left, kurusu _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ i literally have no idea what to say to that _

_ look just because i used to have like eighty different personas doesn’t mean that i know what the hell is going on in my head at any given time _

_ i’m better at dealing with other people’s problems _

_ not my own _

**> >from: takamaki ann**

_ yeah we can see that _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ lmao _

**> >from: okumura haru**

_ Ann, Futaba, there’s no reason to be mean to him, no matter how funny the circumstances. _

_ Akira-kun, why don’t you sleep on it for a while? _

_ I feel like it would be better to discuss something this important in person, anyway _

**> >from: takamaki ann**

_ hey, yeah, you’re right! _

_ you gonna have everything ready for us, akira? _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ of course _

_ though i’m not carrying a week’s worth of groceries for seven people in my tiny handcart so makoto better be ready to make a junes run _

**> >from: futaba sakura**

_ oh goody junes _

_ i wanna hunt down the bear _

**> >from: okumura haru**

_ Just sit tight, my friend! We will help you sort out your errant feelings in a jiffy! _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ is it too late to protest and say that i’ve never had a single feeling in my life _

The skies have clouded over in Inaba, despite all weather reports to the contrary; it’s been raining for the last two days and it might rain another three for all he knows.

That’s okay, though.

For the first time in months, Ryuji doesn’t want to do anything but be absolutely still.

He’s had his ass parked on Akira’s couch for the last two days, his head full of cotton and his eyes still aching with phantom heat. They’ve had takeout for dinner and leftovers for lunch, and he’s not quite sure if Akira’s been eating breakfast or not, but Ryuji didn’t wake up until nearly noon today so he sure as hell didn’t.

There’s this—this thing.

He can’t define it any better than that, but it’s there, looming in the distance, or maybe right over him. He can’t look at it head-on; rather, it won’t let him look at it head-on, hazy and indistinct.

It’s not the thing he’s still avoiding. (Not that he’s avoiding anything when there’s nothing to avoid. Not like he needs to avoid it now, either, after what happened two nights ago. Every person in this house knows what he did. If it doesn’t make existence easier, it does, somehow, make it a little more comfortable.) If that’s a jagged, aching crevasse, softer-edged but still inflamed and tender, this is…a puddle. But not a regular puddle, not one of the ones you slam a foot into and spray water everywhere; one of the deceptive ones, the ones you don’t know the depth of until you’re already knee deep and sinking fast.

There’s a thing, and he’s right in the middle of it, but he’s too thick to see what it is.

He’s not worried about it. It’s not menacing. It’s not an open wound. If anything, it’s a curiosity, a distraction.

Not enough of a distraction to get him off the couch.

Not when Akira’s side is so warm; not when Akira’s hand feels so nice smoothing its way through his hair.

The movie they’re watching is mostly background noise at this point; it’s four in the afternoon and the rain is pounding down almost louder than the TV. Ryuji is more than half asleep, his head on a throw pillow in Akira’s lap, Akira’s hand fisting in his awful parti-color hair, smoothing the strands this way and that in meticulous, mesmerizing touches.

He doesn’t remember how they got like this. He barely remembers digging through Akira’s closet with a singular goal in mind— the hoodie that he’s wearing like a second oversized skin. It’s soft, washed gentle and worn, and it smells like laundry detergent and coffee and Akira. He never explains himself, and Akira doesn’t ask, just pats the couch cushions and pops in the movie.

He feels vague; almost like he’s caught in the moment between when Kamoshida broke his thigh and the moment when the pain hit. He feels like he’s waiting for a hit that’s taking months to wind up.

Somewhere above him Akira and Morgana are talking—he catches his name through the haze of their words and pulls enough scraps of concentration together to listen a little harder.

“Picture it like this,” Akira is saying, his hand never once letting up the slow stroking through Ryuji’s hair. “You’re still upset that you can’t have a human body, right?”

“Well, yes,” Morgana replies. It sounds like he’s on the arm of the couch right above his head.

“It stings, yeah? You don’t like thinking about it?”

“No, but, it’s not the same! He can just re-take the exam, right? It’s not like it’s forever!”

“Yeah, but listen—it’s like when you were hurting enough that you ran away from us. Remember?” Akira’s fingers twitch a little at that.

“Mmn. But that was only for a few weeks at most. It’s been months now. When’s he gonna get over it?”

“Everyone works through stuff at their own pace. Doesn’t help that you keep calling him dumb, either. It’d be like if he kept finding you and following you around back then, calling you a cat over and over instead of apologizing.”

“…was that a hint?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was. He’s not dumb, Mona-Mon. It’s not fair of you to treat him like he is. He’s been doing his best, alright? Everyone needs a break sometimes.”

“…yeah. I know.”

They fall silent. Outside, the rain comes down all the harder.

 

The next day, Akira mentions visitors offhandedly; when Ryuji blinks at him in bewilderment, he reminds him that everyone else is coming down for a week or so. Inaba doesn’t do much in the way of festivals but the summer one is always a fun time, and while its firework display may not rival that of one in Tokyo, the scenery and the lack of crowding definitely makes up for it.

His first instinct is to cringe and reach up to touch his hair.

He knows it looks awful; he’s got at least a quarter-inch of black root at this point, enough that he’s starting to avoid looking in the mirror. Ryuji isn’t vain in any sense of the word (especially compared to Kurusu “a facemask a day keeps the acne away” Akira) but he is at least somewhat invested in keeping himself well-groomed.

Akira sees him do it, of course. Akira sees everything. He can’t hide jack shit from those sharp eyes. “We’re going to Junes,” he says abruptly. “Why don’t you take a shower?”

It has been a day or so, hasn’t it. Ryuji goes and takes a shower.

Akira’s parents are wealthy enough that their hot water tank is more of a hot water pond; he stays in the shower for close to half an hour and the water temperature doesn’t drop, not an iota. When he comes out he’s red as a lobster, but he feels a little more clearheaded than he has for the past few days.

There are clothes left on the counter. He hadn’t heard the door open or close, but then again the acoustics in the shower are almost deafening. The boxers are his, but the rest of the clothes are Akira’s—a loose white t-shirt with stars and a pair of shorts long enough to cover the knee. There’s a funny little lump in his throat when he pulls them on.

He doesn’t  _ dislike _ wearing Akira’s clothes. Far from it—they’re always a little softer than anything he owns, always smell a little fresher, fit a little nicer, feel a little better. He’s worn Akira’s shit often enough that Akira doesn’t even bat an eyelash when he catches Ryuji raiding his drawers.

He knows he’s got a lot of stuff in the wash right now. He also knows he has at  _ least _ one shirt and one pair of shorts of his own still clean.

He also knows that Akira also knows this. There’s a whirlwind of thought spinning in his brain, but it’s happening at a 90 degree angle to the rest of his focus; he knows it’s there, but it’s right at the corner of his peripheral vision, and when he turns to examine it closer it peters out in a huff.

The rain has lightened up to a steady drizzle. Akira doesn’t bring the granny cart; they must only be picking up a few things. Their shoulders brush constantly under the shelter of the umbrella. It’s quiet; serene, really. He doesn’t really want to be out here in the humidity, but as long as it’s with Akira he doesn’t mind too much.

At least the Junes bear isn’t anywhere in sight today. Maybe it’s up on the roof, terrorizing small children and instilling lifelong nightmares. It’s mostly housewives doing the daily shopping and a couple high schoolers hovering around the ice cream section in the freezers, pointing and giggling about something or other. Akira walks past them all, and Ryuji trails blindly behind, almost running into his shoulder when he stops.

“So, uh,” Akira says, a hand coming up to dig into his hair a little sheepishly, “I don’t actually know what you use. Is it box dye, or do you just bleach it from a jug?”

And  _ oh, _ he’s an  _ idiot, _ but he’s only just realized  _ why _ they’re here, standing in front of the health and beauty section in front of rows and rows of dye. His face heats up a bit; he has no clue what’s prompting the sudden swell of emotion, he doesn’t even know what the eff the emotion  _ is. _ “Uh,” he says after a moment, voice weak, “bleach—yeah, one time it was peroxide but it looked like shit; ma picks me up box dye now. I don’t actually know which one…”

“That’s alright,” Akira says, already crouching down next to a display. “We just have to match your hair color to the box color, yeah?”

“Yeah, probably,” Ryuji says, leaning down to look too, and turns just in time for Akira to tap a carton against his forehead. He freezes; he doesn’t know what sorta face he’s making, but it makes Akira’s resting no-look turn sly, just a hint of Joker’s smile tilting his lips up at the corners. “Uhhh, nuh-uh, I don’t like that face you’re makin’—“

“What, you don’t want to be a redhead?” Akira asks oh-so-innocently, bringing the box out just enough for Ryuji to look at.

It’s not just red. It’s  _ fire-truck _ red. “Eff  _ that _ , man!” he squawks in horror. “That’s—no  _ way! _ ”

“No?” Akira shrugs, but Ryuji can read laughter in the tiniest up-and-down motion of his shoulders. “What about…hmm, ash-brunette?”

“I don’t even know what that means but I’m gonna say no.”

“Purple?”

“Pur— _ what? _ ” He crouches down further to look at the box in Akira’s hand and winces. “Dude. If  _ you _ wanna go purple I won’t judge, but like hell am I puttin’ that stuff in my hair.”

“You don’t think I’d look good in purple?” Oh, and now he’s battin’ his eyelashes, real mature, Akira, real mature.

“Purple ain’t your color, man,” Ryuji says firmly, and puts the box back on the shelf where it belongs. Then he reaches up to take a lock of Akira’s bangs in between his thumb and finger, Akira going a bit cross-eyed to watch him. “…Nah,” he finally says, brow furrowing, “definitely not.”

“No purple, then,” Akira says. Is it just him, or is his voice softer than it was just a second ago? “You think I should go blond? I hear they have all the fun.”

“We already got two blonds, man, if  _ you’re _ blond then a) you’re gonna upstage us both and b) it’ll mess up the group dynamics.”

“Redhead, then? I could be Sojiro’s red-headed stepchild for real.”

“…you shouldn’t,” Ryuji says after a moment, tugging on the hair still between his fingers. “You wouldn’t look right. You’re good as-is.”

Akira’s eyes dart to his face, widening just a bit; then he looks away, down at the floor. “Good to know.” He hefts himself upward; Ryuji lets the lock of hair pass out of his grip like smoke. “Here, c’mere—maybe this one. Do you need anything else? Gloves or anything?”

The abrupt change in mood makes Ryuji’s head spin, like something’s just flown past him too fast to see, leaving him dazed in its wake. “Uh,” he says, “maybe a bucket?”

“What do you need a bucket for? Do you just dip your head in?”

“Nah, man. It’s just—I need water, and it’s messy, so—“

“Does a sink not work?”

“Well, no, sinks’re fine, but— I ain’t gonna use your sink to dye my hair, man.” He shuffles a bit, crossing and uncrossing his arms as Akira stares intently between two identical looking boxes of dye. “I don’t wanna get it everywhere, so…”

“So…we put down some old towels?” Akira says, though it sounds more like a question. “And if you’re really that worried, we’ve got some plastic sheeting left over from when mom had the guest rooms repainted a few summers ago.”

Ryuji realizes abruptly that, although this isn’t an argument per se, he’s not going to win it anyway. Akira’s approaching this with a Joker mindset, rapid bullet-point questions that dig deep to the heart of things and lodge there. “Alright, man,” he mumbles, folding gracelessly under pressure. “Might wanna grab some nail polish remover just in case. It takes the stain off, usually.”

And less than an hour after that Ryuji’s kneeling on a chair bent over the sink in Akira’s bathroom, plastic sheeting on the floor and old towels layered in the basin while Akira’s gloved hands gently smooth Vaseline around his hairline.

It’s a lot more intimate than Ryuji was expecting it to be.

He’s never had anyone help him dye his hair before; even his ma is banned from the bathroom until it’s time to clean up. He’s not prepared for how it feels to be completely blind to the proceedings, his elbows propped on either side of the basin, his head dangling between, his shoulder pressed into Akira’s stomach as he leans over Ryuji.

If his eyes were open, all he’d be able to see would be his hands and the sink, but they’re not. He can’t keep them open, not when Akira is gently combing his dye-coated fingers through his hair, using the brush that came in the kit to get up close to his scalp.

Everything feels magnified. The sound of his breathing echoes in the porcelain basin. Every movement of Akira’s fingers sends a chill up and down his spine. Every time Akira moves against his shoulder he feels the muscles flex, and he knows what those muscles are capable of, he’s seen the flips and dives, the catapults and feats of strength; he’s seen them in metaverse clothes and school clothes and street clothes and no clothes at all, and why the  _ fuck _ is that something he’s thinking about right now—

“All done,” Akira says above him, and he jumps hard enough that his elbows slip, send him catapulting face first forward into the sink. “Shit, sorry, did I startle you?”

“Yeah,” Ryuji mutters. There’s no way to save face here. “Sorry. Zoned out. ‘M not used to takin’ the backseat for this.”

“It’s alright. Here, let me—“ There’s a gentle touch to the back of his neck. “Sorry, I got some dye specks here and there.”

“It’s no prob. It happens.”

“I’ll get them.”

“You don’t gotta—“

“I want to.”

Ryuji doesn’t have an argument for that. He just sits there and lets Aira swipe a warm washcloth along the back of his neck, tilts his head up when Akira asks, closes his eyes and lets him sweep it across his face, dotting here and there.

When he opens them just a slit, Akira’s face is puckered in concentration; someone who didn’t know him might not see it, but for Ryuji it’s clear as day. The creases at the corners of his eyes, the shift in his cheek that means he’s probably biting the inside of his mouth again; Ryuji’s seen that expression over locked chests and textbooks and monstrous Big Bang burgers alike.

He closes his eyes before he can give into the urge to stare.

“Ready to rinse?” Akira asks, and he nods, lets Akira guide his head back down into the sink with a hand on the nape of his neck. The water is perfectly warm; Akira doesn’t let a single drop get into his eyes.

When he looks at himself in the mirror, he barely recognizes himself; then again, he looks just like he has for the past few years, like someone put together, like someone rebellious and wild with somewhere to belong.

“There you are,” Akira says fondly, and slings an arm over his shoulder.

Yeah.

Here he is.

  
  


So they clean the guest rooms and the hallways and the bathrooms and the kitchen, polish the appliances until they sparkle (and man, Akira is nothing if not nitpicky about upholding appearances; it makes him realize just how loose and relaxed he’s been around Ryuji this whole time) and all the while Ryuji can’t stop touching his hair.

There’s no difference, functionally, than there would be if he’d been the one to dye his own hair. He knows that. It doesn’t feel any different, it doesn’t look any different—it’s the exact same shade of blond it has been for years.

But this time, it was Akira’s hands that marked him, Akira’s hands that painted on his shade of rebellion. Something so small shouldn’t make a difference, but he pauses in front of every reflective surface to ruffle his hair and feel out the twisting in his gut before Akira hipchecks him into motion again.

The night before everyone is due, Akira rolls a spare futon out beside Ryuji, leaving the bed to Morgana (who, oddly enough, chooses to sleep on the couch instead). He doesn’t explain himself, and Ryuji doesn’t question it. They don’t even speak, really; Ryuji flips through one of the manga he brought while Akira alternately fusses around on his phone and stares at the plastic stars stuck in swirls and loops on his ceiling.

It’s not strained or uncomfortable, but there’s a quality to it that Ryuji doesn’t like. It’s not easy like their normal silences are; it’s charged, something intangible wavering in the air between them.

The fourth time Akira drops his phone to look back up at the ceiling, Ryuji dog-ears his manga and sets it aside too. “Y’wanna talk about it?” he says, or blurts, a rush of words that he doesn’t realize he’s going to say until they’re already out.

It startles Akira; he jumps, his phone slapping him in the face. “Huh?”

“Iunno, you’re just…” he makes a gesture that doesn’t mean anything. “Fidgety tonight.”

“Mmm. Yeah.” There’s a moment where Akira opens his mouth and closes it again, clearly sorting through one response or another. Ryuji rolls onto his elbow towards him, propping his cheek in his palm. Finally, he says “I guess I’m just anticipating. It’s been a while since we’ve gotten everyone together.”

“Yeah. Golden Week, right?”

“Yeah,” Akira smiles, and Ryuji’s captured by the expression. It’s so genuine in a way that Akira only is when he’s talking about his friends. “Two days in a row, even, we got to go to Dome Town  _ and  _ just hang out in Leblanc like the good old days.”

“You miss it?”

“Having everyone around? Yeah, of course.”

The silence falls again, a little easier this time. Then Akira tilts his head just so, and when he meets Ryuji’s eyes again Ryuji’s mouth goes dry for reasons he can’t name. “What about you? You gonna be okay?”

“Whaddaya mean?” Ryuji says, though he knows exactly what Akira means and Akira knows it too. He doesn’t call Ryuji on his bluff though. Instead he gets up to hit the lamp switch, plunging the room into darkness lit only by the green glow of the stars above.

He hears Akira settle back down beside him. The dark makes him a little bold; he scoots an inch or two forward until he’s at the edge of his futon. “I’ll be fine,” he says quietly.

“You sure?” Akira’s voice is quieter in the dark now; he sees Akira shift closer too, his grey eyes just barely visible in the dark. “You’ve been avoiding them.”

He really has, he has no argument about that. “Didn’t feel like talkin’.”

“They’ve been worried.”

“I know.” He closes his eyes. Something touches his face, feather-light. “Mm?”

“Sorry. Thought you had something on your face.” The touch moves away; Ryuji moves faster, his hand curling around Akira’s wrist. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself. You get it?”

“Dunno. Can’t see.”

So Ryuji leans in until their foreheads almost touch, until their breaths mingle between them. He doesn’t know why he does it; it’s not curiosity, except it kinda is. He wants to know if the center of calm he found at Akira’s side only comes after the storm, or if he can summon it any time.

Akira mouths his name in the dark. Ryuji watches him, and thinks that he likes the way it looks on his lips.

 

He wakes before Akira does in the morning, when the sky is still tinted pale pink with the sunrise. There’s an aura of peace covering everything like a blanket, making his thoughts slow and syrupy and his body heavy as he watches the clouds go by.

It can’t last, of course.

Morgana barrels into the room like a cannon ball, yowling. “Akira,  _ Akira _ , get up, c’mon, Lady Ann and the others’re gonna be here soon! We have to—“

He falls into abrupt silence when Akira lifts his head and blinks blearily at him, and it’s only then that Ryuji realizes that half the reason his body feels heavy is because Akira’s arm is draped over his waist.

“’M up,” he slurs, a jaw-cracking yawn slurring the second word into obscurity. When he sits up, Ryuji feels the loss of warmth acutely, and pulls his blanket over his head to compensate. Morgana mutters something, and Akira replies sleepily, and their voices move out of the room.

Ryuji stays under the blanket, his mind buzzing.

They hadn’t been like that when he’d fallen asleep; he’d been firmly on his own futon, and Akira had been firmly on his, even though they’d been leaning towards each other, even though—

Even though what? Guys don’t usually do this with other guys; guys, no matter how close, don’t usually want to fall asleep in their best friend’s arms. Guys don’t imagine their lives centered around their best friend. Guys don’t watch their best friend’s lips move and wonder—

“Shit,” he breathes with feeling.  _ “Shit.” _

Really, it was only a matter of time.

Not thinking about it. Not today, not with everything happening. He can’t, because if he shows any more weakness than he already has the girls are going to eat him alive.

He’s jittery through breakfast, tapping his chopsticks on the rim of his bowl with restless energy. Morgana shoots him dirty looks, but he can’t  _ stop; _ it’s like all the energy he hasn’t spent over the past few days has condensed and pressurized inside of him, and now that he’s aware of it he’s also aware that if he doesn’t burn it he’s going to  _ explode. _

The second he’s finished he shoves his stool away from the counter and drops his bowl in the sink. Akira’s watching him; when he makes a pleading expression Akira wrinkles his nose. “I sorta liked not running,” he says, but quietly; halfway through the sentence, Ryuji’s already into the hallway, grabbing his shoes and their helmets.

He doesn’t wait for Akira to warm them up today. The second he hits the sand he’s off like a shot, like an arrow let free from its bowstring. He doesn’t turn around and he doesn’t look back. He can’t. He  _ can’t. _ It’s the worst fucking cliché in the world, but he  _ can’t. _

When did it happen? When the  _ fuck _ did he start having these…cravings? He doesn’t know; maybe they’ve always been there. Maybe he’s always wanted someone whose arms he can feel safe in. Maybe it’s just bad luck that the first person he’s found is also his best friend.

Maybe it’s just indigestion. Maybe it’s just because Akira’s been so nice to him while he’s been down.

Maybe the sun’ll come down and crash into the earth, killing everyone instantly, so he never has to think about this again.

He runs until he feels his lungs start to ache in his chest; he hasn’t been breathing right, his stride’s all off, his leg is already aching fit to burst since he didn’t stretch first, there’s sand all up and down his leg and in his socks. He slows, feeling the sweat drying tacky on his forehead and the back of his neck; when he stops, no one comes up beside him.

The beach proper, when he turns, is a smudge in the distance. He’s gone  _ way _ beyond their usual turning point.

Restless energy still bubbles in his stomach and arcs in his veins, but now that he’s all the way out here looking back he can’t bring himself to recreate his mad flight out. He slings off his shoes and socks instead, ties the laces and slings them around his neck, and walks back with his feet in the surf the whole way.

It’s chilly but not cold. It’s grounding, if not calming. He feels a little less wild, a little more able to look Akira in the face again without feeling the urge to jitter right out of reality.

There are a  _ lot _ more people on the beach than there were when he left, a whole gaggle of them jumping and yelling; there’s a blonde chick, and a redhead, and a tall, lanky—

oh.

oh no.

He’s not ready, not in the slightest, he thought he’d have hours yet to siphon off his restlessness, but Takamaki Ann turns and shouts his name before he can jump into the ocean and swim away forever.

He catches her when she runs at him, of course, gives her a twirl and dumps her into the surf just to hear her yell. She punches him in the bicep hard enough to bruise, making him grin wider than he thought he could right now. “Yo,” he says, “you lost weight? I coulda tossed you all the way to Inaba.”

“Shut up!” she growls, though she’s pleased enough to duck her head and grin while she kicks water at his shins. “We haven’t seen each other in months and the first thing you do is mention a girl’s weight? Learn some tact, Ryuji!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he says. Before he can say anything else there’s a rising shriek; he turns just in time to see Akira sweep Futaba off her feet and start spinning her in circles, with Futaba pounding on his chest and shoulders the entire time. “Problem child,” he’s saying, barely audible under her screams. “How could you forget—“

“Akira let me  _ go— _ “

“Wretched, wretched child—“

“I’m  _ seventeen!! _ ”

“Where are—“

_ “Put me down!!!!” _

“My  _ beans— _ “

She shrieks even louder as he spins them again, her hair flying every which way, but she’s laughing, too; they all are, Makoto and Haru and Yusuke and Ann. In a way, nothing’s changed; in a way, everything has.

“C’mon,” Ann says, wedging her hand under her elbow to pull him forward. “Everyone’s waiting!”

He doesn’t get a chance to protest, not with an immediate hug from Haru and Makoto, not with Futaba’s fake-retching in nausea after Akira lets her go, not with Yusuke’s calm greeting. In a way it’s better; now that he’s in the thick of things, he doesn’t have any time to think about things he doesn’t want to think about.

Not even when he looks over at Akira and sees him laughing, beaming wider than he has all summer, eyes crinkled up in genuine, blissful mirth. Akira is never more alive than when he’s in the middle of his friends like this, and it’s striking.

“Hey, uh, not to be a downer but how did you guys know we were here?” He asks Makoto. “Thought we’d be meeting up at Akira’s place in—uh, wait, I don’t got my phone on me, what time is it?”

“It’s—“ Yusuke looks up at the sky briefly. “Close to noon, it looks like.” Haru nods in agreement, her phone out to take a picture of the rising waves.

“I don’t even wanna know how you know how to do that.”

“It was pure luck, really,” Makoto tells him. “Futaba saw you running on the beach. We tried to yell at you, but you didn’t hear us. Akira was only a little further back, though, he pointed us towards the parking lot. What excellent timing!”

“We can’t stay too long, though,” Haru interjects, “don’t forget! We’ve got fresh Tokyo sushi for Mona-chan in a cooler in the trunk!”

“Please,” Akira says wickedly, “please, let me and Ann go in first with the sushi. We’re going to blow his little mind.”

“Mean!”

 

To be fair, it is pretty funny to watch Ann walk in with a sashay in her step and sushi in her hands, and to hear Morgana’s ecstatic “L-lady Ann?? With  _ sushi?! _ Pinch me, Akira, I must be dreaming!”

It’s nice to have the house so full, too; even with the three of them it’s been a little uncomfortably empty, enough that Ryuji doesn’t want to think about what it’ll be like when everyone’s gone again.

(He doesn’t want to think about what it’ll be like for Akira, all alone in this house after Ryuji leaves too, alone until the end of the summer.)

But at the same time he can’t help but begrudge the noise and the ruckus, all the attention that Akira has to split between five other people besides him. It’s been  _ just them _ for weeks, he doesn’t have any right to complain, but the thought lingers like a frustrating itch beneath his sternum.

He doesn’t care that Futaba takes it on herself to drape over Akira’s shoulders. He doesn’t care about Ann sprawling across his lap. He doesn’t care about Haru’s gentle touches or Makoto’s soft smiles. He doesn’t. He  _ doesn’t. _

Ryuji’s never been good at lying to anyone, not even himself. When Ann pulls him aside later that night, with everyone else in the living room with pizza and soda and chips hollering about video games, he can’t even bring himself to pretend he doesn’t know what it’s about.

He does what he can to avoid her gaze; messes around with the dishes in the sink, rolls up the chip bags, caps the sodas, stacks and re-stacks the disposable cups on the counter until he hears her irritated huff behind him, the one that promises bad things. When he turns to face her he keeps his back to the cabinets behind him and the door to the hallway to his right, an easy escape route if he needs it.

She doesn’t look like she’s planning to make it easy for him. She swings her legs idly from her seat on the counter; it puts her above his eye level, infuriatingly enough, like he needs someone else looking down on him. Her eyes haven’t lost any of their fire. They pin him to the shelves behind him.

The silence between them stretches thin and taut; Ryuji is the one to snap it. “Well?” he says abruptly, spinning back around and bringing his palms down on the counter behind him. “Whaddaya want?”

“You’ve been avoiding us.” It’s not said with accusation, but it hangs between them like a haze. He doesn’t have any rebuttal, because he  _ has _ been avoiding them. “Why?”

“Reasons.”

“Stupid reasons.”

“Wh—th—they’re not—“

“They are stupid.”

“ _ You’re _ stupid!”

“Your  _ face _ is stupid!”

“Aw, shaddup!”

“Ryuji,” she says, and he spins on his heel, already bristling, already worked up and ready for a fight. He doesn’t want her pity. He doesn’t want  _ any _ of their pity.

He doesn’t find any on her face.

There’s amusement there, sure, but there’s also a little worried furrow in her brow that only ever comes out when she’s got important shit on her mind, like Shiho or phantom thievery or grades. She’s got one whole ponytail all but wrapped around her fist, tugging on it in counterpoint to the way she swings her bare heels back and forth. It startles him enough that the urge to fight dissipates, leaving him blank.

“That’s it?” Ann asks, giving her ponytail another yank. “I mean, yeah, that sucks, it’s gotta sting, we all know it, but  _ that’s  _ why you’ve been avoiding us?”

“Well,” says Ryuji, and stops, because…yeah. It kinda is. It’s the whole reason he wanted to get away from Tokyo for the break.

“Ryuji,” she says again—or, no, it’s more of a sigh this time. She pulls her hair again and jumps down from the counter, and before he can move away she’s on him like an octopus, her arms around his chest and her head shoved pointedly under his chin. “You’re  _ hopeless _ , you know that? Did you ever think to ask any of us for  _ help? _ ”

He can’t look down. He can’t move away, not with most of her weight pinning him to the counter behind them. “I already asked enough,” he says roughly, staring at the ceiling, “and look where it got me.”

Her arms tighten to the point of pain; he wheezes, but she only loosens her grip when he starts bapping at her arms. “Idiot,” she says, viciously this time. “Just because you failed  _ one exam _ doesn’t mean the world is ending! I mean, how many did you fail in high school?”

“Can we not?” he mutters.

“Uh,  _ no _ , because this is obviously something you’ve been needing to hear! Ryuji, you colossal dumbass,” Ann says, and backs away just enough to stand on his toes. “We’re your  _ friends. _ No, look at me—“ she grabs his face and turns his head down, squishing his cheeks in far enough that his lips pucker out. “Repeat after me—“ she mashes his cheeks in after each word, “—I, Sakamoto Ryuji—“

When he hesitates, she just presses harder. “Ow, god, fine! I, Sakamoto Ryuji—“

“—am going to stop ghosting my friends—“

“—am going to stop ghosting my friends—“

“—and pay Takamaki Ann back the ¥300 I owe her—“

“—fat chance- ow!!”

“—I am going to answer my texts—“

“—I’ll answer the phone, jeez—“

“—and when I go back to Tokyo—“

“--…an’ when I go back to Tokyo—“

“—I’m going to sit down and look into a  _ yobiko—“ _

“—I—what? Ann, I can’t—“

“Don’t give me that—“

“I’m serious! We can’t—“

“Hush!” She steps a little harder on his toes, pressing down until he hisses and tries to rear back. “You are a  _ phantom thief! _ You do not get to just waste around bouncing between part-time jobs for the rest of your life!”

“We ain’t phantom thieves anymore,” Ryuji says lowly—and then he  _ does _ yell, because Ann’s pinched him right on the sensitive bits of his ear and has risen up on her toes to get right up in his face, her eyes full of brimstone.

“We are  _ always _ going to be phantom thieves,” she hisses, “even if we never get to touch the Metaverse again, even if I never get to feel Hecate come to me, even if I never get to burn a Shadow to a crisp again—I will  _ always _ be a phantom thief, and  _ so will you. _ ”

It shocks him into silence.

He hadn’t known—he hadn’t thought—of course the others, of course  _ Ann _ would’ve missed it just as much as he has, of  _ course— _ she was one of the first, had her persona nearly as long as Ryuji and Akira themselves, of  _ course _ she’d miss it. He feels like an ass for not realizing sooner.

Maybe she sees it in his expression, cause she lets go of his ear but doesn’t move out of his face. “I mean it,” he mumbles. “Ma an’ I looked. Any  _ yobiko _ worth the money ain’t anywhere near our budget. Even with me workin’ part time. Studyin’ on my own won’t get me very far either, so…” He shrugs, the words ashy and uncomfortable in his mouth. It’s difficult to do this in the fluorescent kitchen light with a calm(ish) mind and clear(ish) thoughts.

Ann’s mouth twists a little at that; the lines of her shoulders slump the slightest bit from “furious” to “contemplative”. “You could ask Ha—“

“No.” It’s a flat word, maybe a little too loud for the circumstances, but like  _ hell _ is Ryuji gonna go begging to Okumura Haru for a handout—she’s his  _ friend, _ and even if she did say yes (like she absolutely would, because Haru might be the sweetest person who ever existed) the guilt would eat him alive.

“Let me finish!” She pinches him in the ribs, right between the two lowest ones, ignoring his yelp. “Okay, yeah, maybe not for money, but she’s gotta know some people who might be willing to sponsor you?”

“The hell would anyone get outta sponsoring  _ me? _ ” Ryuji asks bitterly. “A high school washout with bad grades and bad history—“

“Oh, gee, Ryuji, maybe the guy who broke the school  _ and _ district records for distance running in his third year after a traumatic leg injury that should’ve benched him forever?” Ann says with heavy sarcasm. It shuts him right up, though, cause she’s right. He’s got the medals and everything still slung over his bedpost in Tokyo, though they’re tucked into the corner by the wall right now cause he’s too ashamed to look at them.

He hasn’t even thought of his (ex-ex) track teammates over the last four months. They’re probably doin’ great, running fast and jumping high and all that jazz. He’d never been as close to them as he had been in their first year, but he’d needed  _ something _ to do without Akira around, without phantom thievery taking up his time.

Turns out the Metaverse is great at rehab. He’d been as shocked as anyone during tryouts.

“You’ve got a lot of worth, Ryuji.” Ann’s voice makes him blink, makes him realize that he’s been spacing a bit. She’s finally taken a step back, her arms crossed and her hip cocked in a way that he recognizes from the cover of a magazine he’d seen a while ago. “Don’t blind yourself to it.”

He doesn’t say anything. He can’t really say anything. She seems to understand, though, because she slides down to the floor and tugs him down beside her, slinging her legs into his lap. “Here, look—I know you haven’t seen the apartment that Shiho and I are renting yet.”

Ann’s too… _ Ann _ to be a sister to him in the way that Futaba is a sister to Akira, but it’s close enough to count in the best of ways. He sinks into the certainty of that, his chin hooked over her shoulder as she shows him picture after picture of tiny rooms and cute drapery and Shiho beaming and the Tokyo skyline at night.

Somehow, an hour later, they’ve managed to fit seven people onto a three-cushion couch. Ryuji’s got Akira’s legs pinning his own to the coffee table and Ann’s hair tickling his nose; past Akira, Futaba’s got her head on his shoulder, her feet tucked under Haru’s thighs as Haru leans against Yusuke, tucked into the arm of the couch. Past Ann, next to where Morgana’s loafed up purring, Makoto’s head lolls against the back of the couch; it’s been a long day for her, driving a van full of rowdy teenagers six hours down the coast.

It’s been a long day for everyone; despite the explosions happening in whatever B-rated movie Akira put in, at least three of them are asleep, and despite the crowding, the elbow in his ribcage and the jitters he suppresses when Akira’s breath puffs across his collarbone, Ryuji is…content.

He thinks.


	5. 4.2: ryuji has friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second half gooooo

 

Mornings are weird with everyone else there.

Ryuji’s still the first one up, but by the time he’s started the rice cooker (for seven!) he’s joined by Makoto, dressed in nothing but soft leggings and a sports bra. It’s not a sexy outfit, and it’s not a sleeping outfit; it’s so out of the blue that his jaw drops a little and he spins on his heel to stare back at the rice cooker, suddenly afraid for his life.

She laughs behind him, soft and low. “It’s alright, Ryuji. I hear that you and Akira have been going jogging in the mornings? I’d like to join you. It’s already quite humid outside; there’s no point in sweating through a shirt that I won’t even be wearing to run in.”

“Oh,” he says, and makes a show of sighing in relief. “Uh, we got eggs in the fridge if you want, ‘s usually what Akira and I do.”

“Just egg and rice? You should be eating more than that for the amount of exercise the two of you are doing.” She stretches up to grab a pair of bowls from the cabinet, but can’t quite reach; Ryuji reaches over her head to nudge them close enough for her searching fingertips. “Thank you. Do you have any natto?”

He scrunches his nose up, physically recoiling. “Natto? Really?”

“It’s part of a balanced breakfast.”

“Are you messin’ with me? B-because there’s a lot more to a balanced breakfast than  _ natto. _ ”

“Some people like the taste, Ryuji.”

“You’d be one of them, wouldn’t you?” he mutters, and raises his hands at her sharp look. “Sorry, sorry. We don’t have any, though. Akira doesn’t like it either.”

They fall quiet, working around each other with quiet companionship; Makoto brushes past him for the eggs and quietly scoffs at the state of the fridge, Ryuji reaches over her head again for the furikake and the soy sauce. To his surprise she doesn’t just crack one into a bowl like he and Akira do. She scrambles four and dumps them into a pan, cooking them quickly and efficiently and divvying them up between the two bowls of rice evenly. “Today we’re going to Junes to get you boys some proper groceries,” she says mildly. “You don’t even have  _ miso _ , for heaven’s sake.”

It sounds like a threat. She’s never lost her Queen voice, after all; it’s still an easy part of her, almost indistinguishable.

“Y-yes, ma’am,” he says in response, and though her face is turned away he sees her smile curve her cheek.

He doesn’t wolf his breakfast down like he does with Akira; Makoto’s presence makes him hesitate, taking each bite between his chopsticks in deliberation. She’s the same way, deft and precise; even so, his bowl is empty before hers, and still nobody else has so much as stirred.

The clink of her chopsticks in her empty bowl is jarring, nearly as much so as the way she swivels on her stool to face him, ankles crossed and hands folded in her lap. Nijima Makoto has so much presence and weight in the way that she moves that it demands his attention and his focus; he barely realizes that his knee’s been jittering up and down until he forces it flat.

The way she watches him is eerily like the way she’d watch Shadows way back when; not cold, precisely, but calculating.

“My dad used to walk me through problem-solving when I was small,” she says, quiet words falling like bricks in the spaces between them. Her gaze flicks towards the window, towards the early morning sunlight. “He’d tell me, ‘Makoto, once you’ve made a mistake you can’t undo it, but you can take steps to make it better—face it, accept it, deal with it, and move on.’ I don’t want this to sound like I’m judging you,” she adds hastily, her fingers scrunching across the fabric of her leggings, “but I thought it might be a good thought for you to consider.”

Ryuji swallows through the words caught in his throat and just nods instead. Makoto nods back, and takes their bowls to the sink. “The morning is getting on, and it’s only going to get hotter. Would you like to get going?”

“Uh, y-yeah,” he says, and so they do.

It’s  _ so weird _ to be leading Makoto through the streets of Inaba—to be leading Makoto  _ anywhere _ , in fact. Makoto was always Akira’s de facto second-in-command, as far as those things went; she was on almost every initial infiltration team both for her strategies and her hard-hitting nukes. But she doesn’t know the paths and the pavement here like Ryuji does, and while it’s a little harder to fall into a steady pace with her (her steps are lighter, her gait both faster and smoother than Akira’s) eventually they even out.

“You’re pretty in shape, huh?” he pants as they’re ascending a hill. The humidity is heavy enough that the air feels like sludge, and he’s got sweat pouring down his face. Makoto’s not in much better shape; her hair sticks to her red face and she’s breathing just about as hard as he is, but she shows no signs of wanting to stop.

In fact, she speeds up a bit to pull level with him. “Training for the police academy means that I need to stay in excellent shape,” she tells him. “I run nearly forty kilometers a week.”

“ _ Nice, _ ” Ryuji says, and matches Makoto grin for grin and pace for pace, up the hill and down the hill and around the mountain and down to the Samegawa until his legs feel like jelly and Makoto staggers when she slows down. They end up on the dock, shoes and socks still on the bank, feet in the river; Ryuji bends down to splash water all over his arms and the back of his neck until he feels a little less like melting, but Makoto is more preoccupied with the small fish that dart back and forth just beneath their feet. “They aren’t very cautious, are they?” she says, bending over to dip her fingers in.

“Yeah, you’d think they’d be smarter, but people come fishin’ off this dock almost every day and these guys still stick around.” The water is  _ so cool;  _ Ryuji  really, really wants to belly flop forward just to escape the humidity.

So he does.

When he comes up for air Makoto is watching him absolutely dumbfounded. “What’s wrong, Miss Prez?” he grins, the nickname easy and familiar. “You never jump in a river with all your clothes on before?”

“Of course not!”

“You should try it! Feels  _ real _ nice right now—you don’t got your phone on you or anythin’, right?”

It’s clear that she’s conflicted; her eyes keep darting between him and where her feet still dangle in the water. “If we get soaked, we’re going to drip all over Akira’s entryway,” she frets. “That would be rather rude as a houseguest—“

“Nah,” Ryuji cuts her off, “don’t worry about it! He ‘n I have done it at least three times already. Sometimes we come home still damp from the beach, so he keeps towels in the entryway. We’ll dry out a bunch on the walk home, too.”

“I don’t know…” Makoto’s brow is furrowed in that way it does when she overthinks things; she’s never gone back to the girl who wanted to do everything to please her superiors, but she’s never lost that ingrained good-girl attitude completely, either, and good girls definitely don’t go around jumping into the river with all their clothes on. That’s something for bad boys like Akira and Ryuji to do.

But a lot of times Makoto just needs a little nudge.

So Ryuji climbs back up onto the dock, says “Here, just like this!” and bellyflops back in hard enough to swamp her.

He hears her startled yell even as he sinks to the bottom; he comes up laughing, even though her expression is thunderous. “Look, see, you’re already wet, you ain’t got no reason to say no now—“

“Do you know how long it takes a human to drown, Ryuji?” Makoto says frostily. “Have you ever wanted to find out?”

Then she jumps in after him, and he shrieks high and falsetto as he scrambles to get away from her, and by the end of it all they’re soaked and grinning, wringing themselves out on the rocky shore.

On the way home they don’t really talk; Makoto’s too preoccupied with her damp leggings, which leaves Ryuji time to double down and actually think about what she said earlier.

Face it. Accept it. Deal with it. Move on.

He’s already faced it, hasn’t he? Except no, not really. He’s still avoiding it even now, like a sore tooth. Won’t even look at it head-on, won’t even say it out loud, won’t even think about it by name.

He failed his entrance exams. He failed them hard enough to place in the last fifty students of his center.

He doesn’t know what went  _ wrong. _ He’d had a good night’s sleep and plenty of studying with Ann; he’d thought he was ready, but then… then he flipped over his test sheet, and all the words started spinning, and the back of his neck got prickly and hot, and he broke his pencil halfway through and didn’t even finish the whole test.

He panicked.

It’s a memory that makes his shoulders slump and his teeth grit; when Makoto turns to him and raises an eyebrow he looks away.

But…  _ face it. _

“Makoto,” he says, soft enough that she steps a bit closer. “When I was—y’know. During the exam. It’s not—I didn’t—I froze up.”

Her other eyebrow goes up too. “Under pressure?” she clarifies, and he nods. “That…actually makes quite a bit of sense. You thought it was important, right?” she adds when he scrunches up his face.

“Well, yeah. The most important test I ever took.”

“And you’d never gone through tests thinking they were all that important before.”

“…yeah. No.”

“So—“

“I just wanted to do good!” he spits out, startling both of them. “God, Makoto, I just wanted to get into college with Akira an’  _ do _ somethin’ for myself! I did my effin’ best and I  _ still _ —“

“Did your best,” she finishes, cutting him off with a hand-motion straight from their phantom thief days. “I believe you, Ryuji. You wouldn’t do any less than your best when it comes to Akira.”

“Course not. But I still— bombed it. I still—“ he stops in the middle of the sidewalk, damp and muggy and miserable now. “No matter what I do, I’m still nothin’ but gutter trash when it comes to the rest of yo—“

“Stop right there,” Makoto snaps, loud enough to echo, loud enough to make heads turn around them. “Sakamoto Ryuji, don’t you  _ ever _ say something like that about yourself again.”

She’s furious. She’s utterly _ furious, _ and Ryuji doesn’t get why, but he ducks his head anyway; then her fist closes around the front of his shirt and drags him close, close enough for him to see the anger in her blood-red eyes. “Look, I—“

“—have been using a lot of self-deprecating humor to cover up your feelings of inferiority but Ryuji, you have  _ nothing _ to feel inferior about.” Her voice is strong and stern and forceful, leaving him no room to back off, to turn away and not listen. “You are  _ not _ gutter trash. You have  _ never _ been gutter trash, and so help me if you ever refer to yourself like that again I’m going to—“

He doesn’t find out what she’s going to do; she abruptly takes a step back, realizing the amount of looks they’re getting. Ryuji watches her flex her fingers and shake out her wrists like she used to after landing crits with those terrifying brass knuckles of hers, the motion achingly familiar; his palm slides down to rest against his femur, right above his knee, in response. He can feel the scar there even through his shorts.

“…let’s go home,” Makoto says softly, and so they do.

They don’t talk the rest of the way; they separate at the front hallway, Makoto heading for the guest room where her bags are and Ryuji to Akira’s room to shower and change. He hears voices in the kitchen but doesn’t poke his head in.

He’s got a lot to think about, after all.

  
  


They go to Junes, all eight of them; Morgana refuses to be left behind when everyone else is going, so Akira digs out his old school bag for him to ride along in. Makoto and Haru split the difference in the groceries; Futaba and Ann disappear for almost ten minutes and come back with more snacks and drinks and instant noodles than anyone really needs. Yusuke gets distracted by the lobster tank in the seafood department; Akira actually picks him up around the waist and scoots them both backwards, drawing a glare from the nearby manager and a laugh from the guy manning the seafood counter.

Ryuji…watches.

Yeah, sure, he gives his input on chip type and drink flavor, lets them know what they’ve still got at the house, but he can’t stay caught up in their giddy mood for long. Not at Junes, and not at home with the smell of coffee and curry filling the air.  Not in the evening with Akira nodding off against his shoulder again, and not the next day at the beach in the stupid dog yoga pose while Makoto tries to help Futaba bend down to touch her toes and Ann and Akira start competing to see who’s the bendiest.

Haru doesn’t look like she’s having any problems with it; she’s gone through a whole variety of poses beside him, flowing from one to another like water. “You do this a lot?” he asks, bending down just a bit deeper to peek under his arm—yeah, that’s a nice view, [ Ann in a backbend with her toes dug into the sand for stability and one leg flung almost straight up](https://img.elephantjournal.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/aral-tasher-132320.jpg) and Akira…proving a point.

Seriously, how the eff does the guy even have any bones when he can move like that?! Ryuji didn’t even know bodies could bend that far—he’s seriously got his [ knee over shoulder and his foot behind his head,](https://www.yogajournal.com/.image/t_share/MTQ2MTgwNjczMjg3ODkwMzY1/screen-shot-2016-11-03-at-100821-am.jpg) cheek pressed to the sand while he grabs his other foot behind him.

Effin’ ridiculous.

Kinda hot.

_ Fuck, _ bad thought, bad thought,  _ no. _ He drops his eyes back to the mat beneath him and hopes he can pass off his reddening face as just…being warm or somethin’.

“Yes, actually,” Haru chirps, a welcome distraction; he twists his attention back to her instead of his internal suffering. Her back is arched out, eyes closed, blissful face turned to the sky; he flicks his gaze down out of habit and deems her swimsuit cute. “Mako-chan and I do yoga twice a week, we’ve just moved into the intermediate class. You are doing quite well for a beginner, though!”

“Thanks,” he grunts. Maybe Akira’s moved, cause there’s a yelp and a thud followed by a cascade of laughter from at least four different people.

“If only I was as flexible as Akira-kun,” she adds wistfully. When Ryuji looks at her again she’s looking back, her eyes as sharp as the blade of her axe used to be. “Wouldn’t it be nice, Ryuji-kun? Think of what one could do with such flexibility!”

“Y-yeah,” Ryuji mumbles, suddenly unable to do anything else. God, Haru, _why_? He’s already real well acquainted with the strength in Akira’s arms and what his calves feel like when they’re hooked around his own, but—

_ Bad! _

He lets himself flop ignobly to land face-down on the mat. “Think ‘m done for the day.”

Haru laughs at him. He knows it’s  _ at _ and not  _ with; _ there’s a teasing edge there as she shifts over to sit beside him. Her hand is so small and smooth where it rubs at his shoulders. “Poor Ryuji-kun. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t tease so. You don’t deserve that. Tell me, have you been having a good stay? I’m glad Akira-kun has had someone to stay with him; I do worry about him staying here alone.”

The way she’s sitting, if he looks up he doesn’t have to see her face, so he pillows his head on his arms and stares out to sea, lets her start kneading at the muscles of his shoulders. “Yeah…it’s been really…nice.”

It’s been a lot more than nice, but he doesn’t have the words to express it; how can he even start explaining the sense of peace that comes and goes here in the mountains, here with Akira? How can he explain the way his brain stops racing, the way that his stomach settles, the way he stops wanting to jump out of his own skin?

“I’m sure Akira-kun’s been enjoying it too; you and he have always shared a bond beyond the rest of us,” Haru says, pressing at a spot that makes Ryuji grunt and shift. “Goodness, Ryuji-kun, why so tense?”

It’s not like he wants to tell her that she’s getting close to sensitive matters, so he just shrugs. He regrets it a little when her nails dig into the junction of his neck—not anywhere near hard enough to hurt, of course, just to remind him that she’s not a phantom thief for nothing. “It’s difficult, isn’t it?” she says, her voice softer now, wistful again. “He is so brilliant, after all.”

Ryuji buries his face back into his arms. “Didn’t know you were holdin’ a torch.”

“Oh, please don’t get me wrong, I am well over the crush that I used to have on him!” Her nails slide up to gently ruffle through his hair. “You, on the other hand, are absolutely transparent.”

“Hey, I don’t have a—“

“You don’t need to lie to me, Ryuji-kun. I am your friend, after all.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that. Somewhere on his other side Akira is saying something or other; Ryuji is too far away to make out the words, but the undertone in his voice is fond and warm, the way it is when he talks to Ryuji, the way it is when it’s just them in the dark in the middle of the night.

He breathes in until he can’t hear anything but the breath in his lungs and the blood in his veins and the waves on the shore; he lets it out in one big gust, and somehow Haru understands. “You don’t need to be afraid, Ryuji-kun,” she says, her hand a soft and comforting weight in the middle of his back. “Not of this. Not ever.”

That’s a nice sentiment, but not helpful. Why  _ wouldn’t _ he be terrified of it? Akira is his  _ best friend _ , and he’s put up with Ryuji’s bullshit since literally the day they met. At what point does it get to be enough? Which straw is gonna break the camel’s back?

“How did you,” he says, throat dry and aching, “get over him?”

It takes a moment for her to respond, but when she does she sounds like her smile is sharp-edged and gleaming. “Well,” she says, “I saw the way he looked at you, of course.”

 

 

Akira’s house has three guest rooms. It’s still weird to think about. Three guest rooms, the master bedroom, and Akira’s bedroom. Five rooms for seven people, and they still end up dragging enough pillows and blankets into the living room that there’s really no point in anyone going anywhere else.

Haru and Ann have roped everyone into face masks; Ryuji doesn’t really like the way it feels tacky-thick on his skin, but Futaba glops hers on with scary enthusiasm. It’s lime green and smells like a smoothie gone wrong. “You too, Akira!” she insists (not like Akira would complain about a facemask). “C’mon, hurry up, let’s call Sojiro like this, he’ll freak out!”

They even convince Morgana to dab a little bit on his fur, and squish themselves into the corner of the couch grinning fit to burst. Ryuji can’t see the screen from his current position next to Yusuke on the floor (which is good, because that way the screen can’t see him either) but he can hear Boss perfectly well when he boots up his side of the connection.

“Hi, dad!” Akira and Futaba say in perfect tandem, smiles bright white against the disgusting green goop.

The silence is  _ so _ telling; Ryuji almost wishes he could see what Boss’s face looks like before he realizes that Futaba will probably screenshot it anyway. Then his laughter sounds out loud and tinny, and Akira and Futaba share a fistbump beyond the bounds of the screen.

Beside Ryuji there’s a crunch, followed by a scandalized noise from Haru. “Yusuke-kun, you aren’t meant to  _ eat _ the cucumbers!”

“Whyever not?” Yusuke asks, in obvious bafflement. “Are they not meant as a palate cleanser?”

“No! They go over your eyes, to—well, actually, I am not sure why they do it either. Mako-chan? Would you mind looking it up?”

“It says,” Makoto hums from the armchair beside them as she looks through her phone, her own facemask a regular old shade of white, “that it helps to make your skin appear youthful and glowing.”

“Then I am perfectly happy to continue as I am,” Yusuke says with great contentment, “as my skin is already youthful and glowing on its own. Besides—“ he picks up the sketchbook that’s barely left his hands for the past two days, “I need my eyes open and free at the moment.”

He angles the page just enough that Ryuji can catch a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye; he doesn’t know if it’s a deliberate motion or not, but just the little flick he sees is enough to make him turn his head.

Somehow in the space of a few breaths Yusuke has captured the scene on the couch in rough, broad strokes. The tilt of Akira’s head, Futaba’s stick-straight hair falling over Akira’s shoulders as she presses close, the light from above glinting off their glasses and their smiles, Morgana’s disgusted expression somehow perfectly rendered even as a feline—it’s nothing but a sketch, but it’s full of feelings.

“Damn,” he murmurs. “Yusuke, not bad.”

“Do you think so?” He thinks Yusuke is making some sort of expression, but it’s really hard to tell beneath the face mask.

“Course.  I might not get art all that much, but…”

“Nonsense. Art is, first and foremost, about eliciting a reaction from the one that views it.” He takes the sketchbook back for a moment and squints at it. “How does this make you feel?”

“Uhhhh, iunno. Happy, I guess?” Ryuji shrugs. It’s not a lie, at least.

Yusuke makes a noise of discontent. “I have been doing studies lately,” he says, “of different kinds of love. Akira once made an effort to help me discern what lay inside my own heart. Did you know, Ryuji, that the ancient Greeks sorted love into eight different types?  _ Philia, storge— _ love between equals, dispassionate and virtuous; love between family, found in kinship and familiarity.” He taps his pencil on the page, makes a few marks here and there, then turns it back to Ryuji.

Now the lines of Akira’s bangs mimic the curves of the mask he once used to wear, evoking the inward dip and outward sweep; the mischievous tilt of his lips only adds to the illusion. His shoulders dip inward towards Futaba’s, supporting her weight as she leans into him. “They make beautiful models of  _ storge, _ don’t you think?”

He doesn’t wait for Ryuji to answer, but takes the sketchbook back, flipping through the pages. “There is also  _ mania, _ obsessive love—love that needs, that  _ demands _ love in return, possessive and fiery. There is  _ pragma _ , enduring love, forged from long years of compromise and patience.” Ryuji catches glimpses of faces, of wrinkled hands linked together, before Yusuke hums and stops.

“There is  _ eros _ , of course, the base desire, the primal passion that flares bright and then falls. There is  _ agape _ , selfless and pure and unconditional, love that is free of desire or expectation. But what has captured my interest now—“ he tilts the book; Ryuji goes still.

It’s him. Him and Akira.

The background itself is barely detailed, but still enough so that Ryuji can recognize the back porch of Akira’s house—he must have drawn this just this evening, then, while Ann and Makoto grilled, as Futaba chased Morgana around the yard and he and Akira sat with their legs hanging off the stone patio, laughing about something or other. Ryuji’s eyes are closed, his whole demeanor radiating happiness; there’s tenderness in every line of Akira’s body as he leans in, their faces bare inches apart.

It’s so intimate it makes him feel like he’s intruding.

“ _ Ludus, _ ” Yusuke says quietly. “The fluttering heart. The flirt, the tease, the fall; the euphoria of young love. I could not have found more perfect models had I scoured the earth for them.”

He gently detaches the page and hands it to Ryuji. “Take good care of it, will you? I cannot think of anyone who would deserve it as much as you.”

Something about his tone of voice makes Ryuji absolutely sure he’s not just talking about the drawing, but he nods anyway, pushing himself up to unsteady feet. “Gonna go…put this where it won’t get wrinkled,” he mumbles, and escapes.

  
  


As the festival draws closer, in the space between one breath and the next, the girls become fixated on yukata.

Ann and Makoto brought one each; Futaba and Haru didn’t, but the loud and scary man who runs the fabric shop down the road took on rush jobs for them. Yusuke did, which surprises no one, Ryuji least of all.

Akira already owns  _ two, _ which surprises  _ everyone. _

Neither of them look like his style. One is a deep indigo, darker than Yusuke’s, crosshatched  with a blue dark enough to look black when it’s not in direct sunlight. One is a steely grey almost exactly the color of his eyes, covered in a stylized cloud print. No matter how much Ann bribes or Haru coaxes or Yusuke wheedles, though, Akira refuses to model for them.

Which is how Ryuji ends up standing on a chair in the living room wearing the blue one.

He doesn’t really remember how he got into this situation and he doesn’t really know how he can get out of it, and at this point he’s in way too deep to even try. They’ve all left him to go get drinks from down the road anyway—even Akira, the traitor, who’s just spent the afternoon skulking in the corners of the living room and deflecting when people ask him things.

Everyone except Futaba, who’s on the couch on her laptop, and glares over the top of her glasses when he tries to get down from the chair. “If you move I’m telling Makoto.”

“She ain’t even here!” Ryuji gripes, crossing his arms and making a face at the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders. It’s nice light cotton, very breathable, but he’s never worn something like this for this long and his underbits are feeling a little too breezy. “Why do I gotta stay up here when they’ve all left?”

“Cause if you jump down and ‘ruin the lines’ Yusuke’s gonna know, and then we’ll have to listen to him mope for ages about the lost opportunity to sketch ‘such a conflicting figure’—“ her voice deepens, emulating Yusuke’s speech and nailing it pretty solidly. Ryuji can’t help but snort. “Plus,” she adds casually, “everyone else has gotten to talk with you. Figured it was my turn.”

Ryuji doesn’t like the sound of that at  _ all.  _ “Hey, if you’re gonna start taking the piss—“

“Why would I? It’s no fun to poke fun at you when you just lie there like a wet blanket like you have this whole week,” she says, and shrugs. “No, I wanna talk about you and Akira.”

Ryuji fills up his lungs and groans, long and loud as he can. “God, what is with you guys lately?!”

“Hey! No talking back!” She points an accusing finger at him. “This is my interrogation!”

“I ain’t gonna stand here and be  _ interrogated _ over god-knows-what—“

“You’ve been here for like a month and a half now Ryuji, I just wanna know how you’re enjoying being a housewife—“

“I’m not a housewife!!”

“You sure are doing well with making dinner and keeping things clean for him though,” she says, and wiggles her eyebrows. Ryuji slaps both hands over his face and regrets everything. “And holding a torch for him the size of a Monabus, too.”

That gets another groan out of him, making him drag the tips of his fingers down his face to distract him from the way his neck is heating up. How the hell is he so transparent? How is everyone in his immediate radius able to lock in on his weaknesses so well?

Oh  _ fuck _ no, can Akira tell?!

“It’s—it’s not like that,” he mumbles into his palms. “He’s my best friend—“

“Oh,  _ please. _ ” Futaba’s voice is witheringly condescending, and when he looks up to glare she’s glaring right back. She’s even closed her laptop to do it, all her attention fixated on him. “If you honestly think you’re platonic, you’re thicker than  _ Inari. _ ”

“You can’t—you can’t,” he says. His mouth is dry, his heart pounding high in his throat; he can’t meet her eyes for more than a second before having to look away. Haru’s words— _ You don’t need to be afraid, Ryuji-kun— _ but he  _ is _ , he’s  _ swamped _ in it like a wave at high tide, and Futaba must see it in his face, because she shoves the laptop off her lap and points to the couch.

He staggers when he gets off the chair, grabbing the closest pillow and shoving his face into it as he sits. Futaba throws her legs up into his lap—partly a dominance move, he figures, and partly as another barrier to keep him trapped in this conversation. “You can’t say a word to him. Not an effin’ thing.”

“Are you—you’re really freaking out over this, aren’t you?” she says, and her tone is markedly different from how it was a few seconds ago. “Ryuji?”

“I don’t—“ Yusuke’s words,  _ the fluttering heart; the flirt, the tease, the fall— _ and it does, it feels like he’s falling, it feels like the bottom is dropping out from everything he knows, and he’s  _ terrified. _ “It’ll—it’ll go away, just, please, don’t—“

“Hey, hey—“ her legs swing away, but her arm drapes across his shoulder the next second; she leans against his side, about as boney as a bundle of sticks and just as heavy. “Ryuji, you’re so dumb.”

He is. He really is. What the fuck sorta dumbass idiot goes and falls head-over-heels for their best friend just because of a little emotional instability and some comfort? What sort of loser would take advantage of their best friend’s  _ completely platonic _ hospitality like that? “I know,” he grits out, “trust me, I know—“

“Not for that, dummy!” She swats him across the back of the head and yanks his pillow down. He focuses on the finger hovering in front of his nose rather than the accusing look she’s pointing in his direction. “You’re—ughhhh, it’s not just you,  _ boys _ are so dumb.”

“Thanks,” he says, the word as dry and sarcastic as he can make it.

“Du-u-u-u-umb,” she says again, the arm around his shoulders pulling him back and forth until she’s shaking him in slow motion. “So-o-o-o-o du-u-u-u-umb. I can’t even—I’m not even allowed to say anything but just know that you’re  _ dumb. _ ”

But the shaking turns into a quick squeeze, a butterfly-light hug, so as much as Ryuji knows that she means it, he also knows she doesn’t. That doesn’t really help him though; his throat is still tight, his neck still hot. He barely registers that he's trying to dig his fingers into his thigh before Futaba baps his hand. “Everyone knows, don’t they,” he says more than asks hollowly.

“You’re  _ transparent, _ ” Futaba confirms. Ryuji grabs the pillow again and shoves it back over his face. “You’re like a fish tank filled with feelings instead of fish. Which is good, because Inari might try and take them if they  _ were _ fish.”

“He could have ‘em,” Ryuji mutters. “Feelings are  _ bullshit. _ ”

“I mean, I could drink to that,” Futaba says, “and if you don’t get your act together I might have to. Akira is my brother, after all, which means I gotta look out for him and his best interests.”

It’s so out of the blue that he lifts the pillow just a bit, just to turn his head and look at her with all the disbelief he can muster.

Futaba looks back at him, and how a 45-kilo girl can manage to look so threatening while sitting so still is horrifying.

“Right now,” she says, and makes a disgusted face, “his best interest is  _ you. _ ”

 

 

It’s stressing him out.

It’s stressing him out  _ really effin’ bad _ .

Bad enough  that he avoids everyone for the rest of the afternoon, bad enough that he barely picks at his dinner, bad enough that he finally has to retreat to the back patio to get away from the noise and the laughter and the knowledge that  _ everyone there _ is aware that he’s—

“ _ Fuck, _ ” he whispers, soft but heartfelt, staring up at the cloudless sky. There’s a full moon tonight; the light paints every blade of grass and every leaf and branch with silver. If he was in any other mood, he might call it pretty. Like this, he barely notices.

He’s kneading at the scar above his knee with mindless intensity when the sliding door behind him opens; his shoulders stiffen, but it’s only Akira who sits down beside him. He says something, but Ryuji doesn’t register it, too busy wallowing around in the confines of his own mind.

Then there’s fingers covering his, moving his hand away from his knee. Akira’s hand is colder than his own, his fingers long and slim and deft and pressing down right above his knee, a gentle pressure that grounds him, brings him back to himself enough to actually tilt his head back and focus on Akira.

Akira looks back at him.

The way his head is angled casts half his face in shadow; it makes his expression inscrutable but for his furrowed brows. Ryuji turns away before he can keep staring, digging the heel of his palm into the meat of his thigh again.

What is he even supposed to say here? Does he know? Did they tell him? There’s no way that six other people are gonna manage to keep a secret from Captain Perception himself. It’s not a matter of  _ if _ at this point, it’s a matter of  _ when.  _

He doesn’t see Akira leave; he barely notices when he comes back, only looking up when Akira drops something into his lap.

His hands register what it is before his mind does. He opens his mouth to ask why he’s now holding a helmet, but Akira puts one finger over his lips—over  _ Ryuji’s _ lips—pressing down feather-light, and Ryuji falls silent more from the chills down his spine than anything else.

Akira leans in close, real close,  _ too _ close, and murmurs “Go around the side. I’ll meet you out front.”

Then the sonofabitch stands up and latches onto the gutter to pull himself onto the roof.

Ryuji gapes. Akira puts a finger to his lips (his own, and that’s not a memory that Ryuji wants to keep, except it really,  _ really _ is) and grins; his teeth flash white in the moonlight.

The absurdity of the situation is slow to take hold, but as soon as it does it latches its claws into Ryuji hard enough that he has to hook the helmet over his arm and slap both hands across his mouth to stifle his wheezing. It—he—he just  _ did _ that, Akira  _ literally _ just climbed over his own house instead of just walking through the kitchen to the front door.

He’s losing the battle with his giggles by the time he gets out front. Akira’s already got the scooter wheeled farther down the street, standing in a puddle of light from the nearest streetlamp, and he’s grinning just as wide when Ryuji breaks into a jog.

“You’re effin’ ridiculous,” he says when he gets there, only a little hysterical. “Really? The roof? Y’had to go over the roof??”

“Get on the bike before they come looking for us,” Akira answers, which really isn’t an answer, and really shouldn’t make Ryuji bark a laugh like it does. “I didn’t want to answer any weird questions, y’know?”

“Weird questions like ‘why are you walking on your roof instead of using doors like a normal person’, huh? Questions like that?”

“Aw, shut up,” says Akira fondly, and Ryuji howls laughter into the dark of the night as they start speeding away.

It’s not much of a question as to where they’re going; Akira takes all the turns and streets that lead to the beach, and Ryuji appreciates it immensely. Here away from everyone he feels more calm, less stressed; the majority of it leaches away the moment their feet hit the sand.

By silent agreement neither of them speed up past a medium jog, just enough to get the heart racing, not enough to break a sweat. The crunch of the sand and the hush of the waves on the shore and the soft pant of Akira’s breath combine to sink into his bones, to make a feeling as good as a full-body stretch after a hard day’s work. After a while he slows, and Akira does too, until they’re just walking side by side, the waves a steady counterpoint, the moon bright and glimmering.

“I’ve been a bad friend,” Akira says abruptly, and stops suddenly enough that Ryuji takes a few awkward steps forward alone before he turns. Akira isn’t looking at him; he’s facing out to sea, and though now the moon can highlight every contour of his face, Ryuji still isn’t any closer to reading the expression there. “For that, I want to apologize.”

“Uh,” Ryuji says, “what?”

“I want to apologize,” he repeats, patient and unyielding as any of the rocks that litter the shoreline.

“Akira, you’ve been a—where the hell is this coming from? You’re literally the best friend anyone could ever ask for—“

“I mean it.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and slouches into a position Ryuji automatically classifies as his ‘on-guard delinquent’ pose, and the sheer oddity of it makes him dig his heels into the sand, makes him sway back a little. “I’m sorry. I—should’ve come to see you more. In Tokyo, that is. The more that I’ve been thinking about it, the more that I’m realizing I all but abandoned you there for the last few months.”

Something goes  _ swoop _ in Ryuji’s gut.

He can’t really explain it, but his whole— _ everything— _ feels like it just lurches a bit, twists about 20 degrees away. It makes him swallow, makes him restless again, but not the sort of restlessness that drove him out to the porch; it’s softer, mellower somehow. It just makes him jittery, makes him shove his own balled-up fists into his own pockets. “Akira, no.”

“Akira  _ yes. _ ”

“Dude. You’ve been busy—“

“Ryuji, I literally—it’s not like I’ve been a couple hundred kilometers away,” he says, and starts digging into the sand with his toe. Frustrated isn’t a look that Ryuji’s seen on Akira often, and it throws him off, makes him feel all weird and melty inside. “I’ve been living in Leblanc the whole time. I know where you live. I could’ve gone over at any time if I hadn’t been so distracted by schoolwork—“

He winces, then purses his lips and twists his mouth in an expression that Ryuji absolutely should not find cute but absolutely does anyway, to his eternal dismay. “That’s no excuse. I should’ve—I should have seen. I should’ve helped.”

As fun as it is to watch Kurusu Akira talking circles around himself like a puppy on a leash, there’s only so much Ryuji can take before he feels like he’s about to combust. “Hey, man, it’s not like you could’ve known—“

“I should have. I  _ know _ you.” His eyes flick up just once, just to meet Ryuji’s gaze for a brief instant that leaves him feeling molten, that stops the breath in his throat. He’s really really glad for the moonlight right now, cause he wouldn’t be able to explain away the heat rising to his cheeks and the back of his neck in the daylight. “Listen. Your place is next to me, and mine is next to you, right?”

Ryuji definitely doesn’t whine, but it’s close. “I can’t believe you’re still on about that…” He ducks his head and rubs his palm over the back of his neck, wishing he could chase the heat there away.

“Because it’s true!” Akira looks at him again, longer this time, long enough to dry Ryuji’s mouth and make him scrub his hands against his shorts, once, twice. They’re all twitchy movements—he’s pinned beneath Akira’s eyes, unable to flee, but he’s too wound-up now to be completely still. Akira turns to him fully, takes a step or two closer, reaches out and fists his hand in the bottom of Ryuji’s shirt. “It’s true,” he says again, softer.

He looks like porcelain in the moonlight. Like fine china. Like an unsheathed blade left out to shine on a table. Ryuji can’t stop looking at the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks, the angle of his nose, his chin, his mouth. He’s—Ryuji doesn’t have words for what he is. He wishes he did.

“You’re my best friend,” Akira murmurs, looking—well. Whatever expression he was making is erased by dissatisfaction. “When we go back to Tokyo, I’ll be better.” His voice is so soft, so smooth. Ryuji can’t help but fixate on the way the words come out of his mouth.

He's standing so close, close enough that the sound of his breath is louder than the waves on the shore. If he leaned in, just a little bit more, their foreheads would touch.

“You’re already pretty great, man,” Ryuji manages to say, but Akira shakes his head.

“I mean it. I’m bad at reaching out, but I’ll be better. For you. I promise.”

“You don’t gotta,” Ryuji breathes, but it’s an empty protest, and they both know it. There’s an upward tilt to Akira’s mouth now, just a bit. He’s watching Ryuji just as closely as Ryuji’s watching him.

They don’t run back to the scooter. They walk silently, side by side, just them and the waves and the moon, and Ryuji's heart pounding loud enough in his chest to block out almost everything else.

On the ride back he gathers what little courage he can scrape together and presses just a bit closer, leans just a little more in, holds just a little tighter; he wonders if he imagines Akira’s shiver.

 

 

They go to the beach again the day of the festival, while the sky is still clear—it’s calling for rain  _ again _ this weekend, and Futaba glares at the sky for at least ten minutes before declaring it “properly intimidated!” and moving on with her day.

Ann joins them on their beach jog this time, but bows out not more than ten minutes in with a grimace, to Akira’s laughter and Makoto’s carefully hidden smile.

Ryuji doesn’t last much longer.

It’s not that he’s tired, or that he’s got any less of that hectic energy buzzing around under his skin today—no, it’s there, it’s  _ very much there, _ but the sound of three sets of feet hitting the sand isn’t anywhere near as comforting as two. Akira looks at him sharply when he slows down but Ryuji waves him ahead, turning off towards the tide pools instead.

He’s got them all to himself today. Usually there’s a kid or a couple of older people poking around in them, but today Ryuji’s free to just shuck off his sneakers and slip his legs into the water. There’s a couple of fish left in here from high tide, small bright things that dart away the second he disturbs them.

Down the beach, Haru is trying to show Futaba some of the easier yoga poses; she’s not doing very well. Yusuke brought his whole easel and paints and everything and is facing out to sea; he’s got that posture that means he’s deep in the zone, and not hell or high water will disturb him. Akira and Makoto jog slow and easy back and forth, up and down, not anywhere near the pace that they’d keep if Ryuji was with them. It looks like they’re talking about something or other. Ann’s sunbathing now, down to her bikini and stretched out on a towel.

They all look happy, unconcerned. Ryuji wishes he could have that peace of mind.

_ You don’t need to be afraid, Ryuji-kun, _ Haru’s memory whispers in his ear. He snorts. Of  _ course _ he needs to be afraid.

_ You are a phantom thief, _ memory-Ann growls at him, and his mouth scrunches up. He knows, alright? He knows he’s being stupid, but he also knows that there’s no way in hell—

_ I saw the way he looked at you, of course _ and  _ The euphoria of young love; I could not have found more perfect models had I scoured the earth for them _ overlap, like a tag-team attack, a baton pass from one thought to another.

_ Right now, _ memory-Futaba wrinkles her nose at him,  _ his best interest is  _ **_you._ **

_ You wouldn’t do any less than your best when it comes to Akira, _ memory-Makoto soothes and chides.

That may be true, but it doesn’t mean that—

His phone is ringing. He doesn’t look at the screen as he pulls it out of his pocket and brings it to his ear. “H’lo?”

_ “Ryu-kun,” _ his mother scolds,  _ “you haven’t called me all week! I was starting to get worried!” _

“Aw, hell, ma, I’m sorry—“ He pulls the phone away and taps the video icon, and moments later his mother’s face fills up the whole screen. She’s still dressed from work, her hair still up and her earrings still in, and she looks tired—but then again, she almost always looks tired. Less so now that Ryuji’s bringing money in too, but he’s been gone for a month and a half, and it sends a spike of guilt through him. “It’s just—it’s been real hectic,” he finishes lamely.

_ “Tell me about it,” _ she says, and so he does, finds himself spilling everything that’s happened the past week, the camping and the stars, Akira helping him re-dye his hair, everyone showing up, the firework festival tonight—eventually his words run dry, though, as he circles around the last issue of the week.

_ “I notice Akira-kun isn’t anywhere nearby today,” _ his mother says. Goddamn, but she’s always been a shrewd one. He must be making some sort of face, because her eyes sharpen even as her face softens.  _ ”Do you feel like talking about it?” _

“I,” he says, and swallows. What if she— what if she thinks it’s bad, that he’s even worse than she thinks he is, falling for his best friend, his best  _ guy _ friend, like this? But his ma’s always been his rock, his harbor; he’s told her literally everything (with the glaring exception of his participation in the phantom thieves, for obvious reasons.)

She loves him. She’s…probably not gonna love him any less.

“I,” he says again. “I li—I think I—I like girls, alright?! But—but I—“

_ “But?” _ she says, both of her eyebrows raised.

“I…maybe,” he says, a little choked, a little helpless, a little panicky, “I like—Akira. Like—like like. A—a lot. I don’t—I think, I don’t know, I just—“

_“Ryuji. Honey, shh.”_ Her voice is low and shuts him up completely, lets him focus on taking tiny, gasping breaths. He said it out loud. He said it out loud and now he can’t take it back, now it’s out there and glaring and _true._ _“Baby, listen to me. Look at me, okay? You listening?_ ”

“Yeah.” His voice comes out thin and thready.

_ “You know I love you, right?” _

He can’t say a word back; he just nods. Her face splits into a grin wider than any he’s ever seen; she’s beaming at him, glowing like the sun.

_“Baby, you have such a big heart; you have so much love to give, and so many people you can give it to, and I am_ ** _so_** _proud of you for being able to tell me.”_

When he exhales, it might sound a little like a sob. Ma laughs, just a little, just once. “Y-you sure?”

_ “Honey, of  _ **_course_ ** _ I am! I’ve always been proud of you, and I always will be. You are so good at picking yourself back up when you fall, you always have been. Have you been wringing yourself out all week?” _ He nods and scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand.  _ “Of course you have.”  _ Her voice is so fond, so full of comfort and love that it makes him sniff and grin back, however tentatively.

He’s sniveling like an idiot, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when his mom is cooing at him over the phone, not when he feels so safe wrapped up in her love. “I’ve been a real idiot this week, ma,” he tells her, and she laughs at him. “I just—I don’t wanna change our friendship. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

_ “He has been excellent for you,”  _ she agrees,  _ “and he’s so polite and well-spoken to boot. As a son-in-law I could definitely do worse.” _

“ _ Mom! _ **”** he squawks, scrambling backwards to avoid dropping his phone in the water. When he picks it back up again, she’s roaring with laughter. “That’s not cool, ma! You can’t say sh—stuff like that! I don’t even know if I wanna say anythin’—“

_ “Of course you want to say something! You wouldn’t have told me if you didn’t.” _

“That’s…true,” Ryuji concedes, and screws his face up. “I really don’t, though.”

_ “It’s up to you, of course, _ ” she says, and waggles her eyebrows at him, something that never fails to make him laugh.  _ “But what’s the worst that could happen?” _

“Uh, he hates me forever?”

_ “Realistically.” _

“Uhhh, he  _ hates me forever?” _

_ “Ryuji.” _

“Mmmmghn, he just wants to stay friends.”

_ “Which, as a result, isn’t awful?” _

“Of course not!”

_ “So where’s the downside?” _

Ryuji wrinkles his nose and doesn’t answer, and she sighs and shakes her head at him.  _ “You’ll get there eventually, baby. I know you will.” _

Before he can respond, there’s yelling from further down the beach. He looks up; it looks like everyone’s gathered back together, and at least two of them are waving at him. “Hey, I think I gotta go, looks like everyone’s ready to head back. Think Haru and Futaba still have to pick up their yukata from the shop in town—the owner wasn’t really thrilled at such a rush job, but I guess Haru threw some good money at him and complimented his stuff, so…”

_ “Alright, Ryu-kun.”  _ She blows him an air kiss.  _ “Take pictures for me tonight! And you’ll let me know how it goes, right?” _

“Good _ bye, _ ma,” he says, and hangs up on her while she’s still laughing.

  
  


Ann and Makoto are wearing the same yukata they have for the last two festivals; Ann’s pinky-orange obi matches the ribbons she ties her hair up in, and Makoto looks as sleek and dignified as she always does. Haru’s rush job turns out gorgeous, a soft yellow with purple flowers that brings out her eyes. Futaba’s is checkered in white and a green that’s almost a perfect match to her old phantom thief attire, and she can’t stop grinning as she strokes her hands down the sleeves.

Yusuke looks as put-together as usual. Even Morgana’s wearing a bright new scarf for the occasion.

Ryuji feels like he’s playing dress-up, and he can’t even look at Akira.

Not because he looks…bad. But because every time he tries, he…suffers.

The yukata might not be his style, but he wears it like he goddamn means it, like it’s just another aspect of his metaverse outfit. On Ryuji, it’s a costume. On Akira, it’s just another item of clothing. One that brings out the stormy steel of his eyes and echoes the clouds above and makes him look like—like something Ryuji doesn’t even have the words to express.

He’s seen Akira in less. Hell, he’s seen Akira in  _ nothing, _ so why the hell can’t he keep his eyes from dropping to the exposed sliver of collarbone the yukata shows off?

Ryuji hasn’t spoken more than ten words since they left the house to walk to the festival grounds, held just down the hill around the local shrine.

It’s easier once they settle into the crowds around the booths—it’s a lively festival this year, with stands for games and food and all sorts of goodies. They catch looks as they pass, which isn’t surprising; a group of seven teenagers (and a cat), all in yukata, all walking in a big, happy group—they’re just the sorta thing that adults like to make noises about.

But he doesn’t catch any disparaging looks, or hear any complaining. Honestly, everyone in Inaba’s nicer than Tokyo, and it’s still throwing him off. He’s been bracing himself for a hit that probably isn’t even coming.

He’s just another person in the crowd, wearing a yukata that isn’t his and trailing along behind his friends.

“No,” Ann says sharply beside him, jabbing him in the ribs hard enough to make him jump and yelp, “no, no no no you do  _ not _ get to sulk back here after all that time I spent this afternoon getting you ready!”

She’s already got a crepe in one hand and a choco banana on a stick in the other; she shoves the crepe into his hands and takes a vicious bite off the end of the banana before he can protest. “And don’t try to tell me you’re not sulking, either,” she says after she’s swallowed her mouthful. “I know you, Sakamoto, and you’ve got your big baby pouty-face on.”

“Yeah? Well, you’ve already got powdered sugar on your yukata, so who’s the big baby now?” he shoots back, and grins when she looks down. “Ha. Gotcha.”

“You’re awful!” she tells him, but she’s grinning while she does it. “C’mon, you need to look a little livelier. We’re at a festival! Where’s your festival spirit?”

“It’s gone, Ann. You sucked the life out of me and now I’m a dead shell of a man.”

“A dead shell of a man?” She says doubtfully, wrinkling her nose at him. “You’re awfully loud for a dead man.”

“You really think I’d shut up even in death?” She mulls it over before nodding and shoving the rest of the banana into her mouth. Ryuji raises his eyebrows. “Damn, girl, you wanna go any harder on that thing?”

The punch to the ribs he gets is well worth her scandalized expression. She snatches the crepe back out of his hands while she’s at it. “You don’t deserve this,” Ann tells him venomously. “And here I came to see how you were doing.”

“Same as I have been?” It’s not quite a question, but he doesn’t really see what she’s getting at.

Ann looks at him for a long, long moment, the crepe halfway to her mouth almost forgotten. “You,” she starts, then stops, then starts again. “How you and Akira were doing. You guys have been weird this week.”

“Akira’s always weird,” he mutters, already trying to think of a way to wiggle out of this conversation. Ann just rolls her eyes at him, so he tries again. “I don’t know what you’re—“

“You’re an awful liar,” Ann sighs, and deftly plucks a strawberry off of her crepe and shoves it into his mouth before he can react. “Eat that and try again.” She talks all the louder over his sputtering. “I know that you’ve been freaking out all week. I’m not here to pry into your sad baby feels again, I promise, I just…wanted to give you some encouragement, I guess.”

Ryuji swallows the strawberry remains. Not his favorite taste, but better than if she’d shoved the choco banana at him. “Encouragement,” he says, not quite a question.

She busies herself with her crepe for a moment, messing with the filling, re-wrapping the paper a little more securely around it. “You’re good for him, you know,” she says without meeting Ryuji’s eyes, ignoring the way he stiffens. “You always have been.”

She pats him on the shoulder, then rests her head there; he relaxes, bit by bit, when that’s all she says. Ann’s a good friend. It shouldn’t surprise him at this point, but somehow it always does.

It makes it—not easy, exactly, but  _ easier _ to mumble, “He’s good for me, too.”

“Tell him that,” Ann says through a mouthful of crepe, and slings her arm around his waist.

“Maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe! It’s not like I know—how am I supposed to tell?” it comes out a lot whinier than he intends. Ann’s immediate shout of laughter leaves her almost doubled over. “Hey! C’mon! Don’t laugh at me!”

“How can I  _ not _ laugh at you?!” she gasps, shaking her head hard enough that her pigtails thwap her in the nose. “Do you know how ridiculous you are? There is  _ literally _ no doubt that he’s into you. None. Whatsoever.”

“Yeah, but—“

“Listen to me, Ryuji,” Ann says, looking as devilish as only Akira can manage most of the time. “The next time you guys are hanging out alone together, watch where his eyes are.”

“Uh, why?”

“Cause if he starts looking at your mouth, that means he wants to kiss you.”

“B-bullshit!” Ryuji yelps way too loud, drawing a couple dark looks and another howl from Ann. “Y-you can’t just say that—“

“It’s true! It’s straight from the girl’s manual on flirting, which you guys must have been reading from because that’s  _ all _ you’ve been doing this week—“

“We have  _ not!!” _

“Hate to interrupt,” comes Akira’s voice from behind them, and Ryuji kinda wants to die a little. God, how much of that did he hear? Please, please let it have been none at all—

“Watch his eyes!” Ann hisses as they turn. Ryuji vows to do exactly  _ not that. _ “Heeeyyy, buddy!” she says, all bright and cheerful with the worst goddamn acting known to man. “Having fun so far?”

Akira shrugs. “Looks like you’ve been having more than I have. Can I steal Ryuji?”

“ _ Can _ you,” she drawls, her brows raised, her elbow nudging Ryuji not-so-gently in the ribs, and he steps on her foot in retaliation. “Ow! God, take him, I don’t want him anymore. Never did in the first place. You have my blessing.”

Akira squints at them.

“Please,” Ryuji says, widening his eyes as far as they can go, “before she starts making me hold all her stuff again.” She jabs him in the ribs harder this time. “Ow! Jeez! Or does that! C’mon, Akira, we’re going!”

He does his best to ignore the “Get ‘im, tiger!” that Ann hisses as he leaves. His only saving grace is that Akira didn’t hear her too.

They end up halfway up the hill, near a flattened observatory point with a gorgeous view of the Yasoinaba valley. There are kids running up and down nearby, their parents watching them run off their energy with weary tolerance; there are a couple people closer to their own age clustered under some trees further up. The space near the fence that they’ve ended up beside is all theirs, though.

Akira’s got a couple sticks of yakitori; he offers one to Ryuji, who gladly takes it. Lunch was a while ago, and he hasn’t been in the mood for eating lately. When Akira offers him the other one he hesitates, but Akira presses it into his hand.

He’s not gonna waste it, and festival food always tastes so much better than anything else.

He trashes the sticks once he’s done, and when he’s back Akira stretches hard enough that his back cracks. Ryuji doesn’t even try to stop himself from watching the line of his throat, the way that his hair falls back, and when Akira bends back even further he puts a hand to the small of his back to brace him.

He gets a grin for that, and when Akira re-settles himself upright he’s close enough that their shoulders press together. Both of them have their elbows braced on the top fencepost, and where their hands dangle down their fingers brush, just lightly enough that it could be an accident.

Even accidentally it makes Ryuji’s heart pound a little harder in his chest.

Even more so when Akira grabs his hand and flips it over, pressing his thumb to Ryuji’s palm. “Someone taught me to read the lines on people’s hands once,” he tells Ryuji, his eyes alight with mischief. “She charged good money for it, too.”

“Yeah?” Ryuji says, and grins right back. “What’re you gonna charge me?”

“For you?” His eyes shutter, just halfway, a very feline motion that makes Ryuji swallow. “I’ll take an IOU.” He presses at Ryuji’s hand until his palm splays flat, cradled in Akira’s hands. The light’s getting dim; the sun has long since set behind the mountains, and with how overcast it is any ambient light is waning fast. But the lamps on the observatory fence and along the path are cheery yellow, and Akira pulls Ryuji’s hand a little closer to see.

“Hmmmm,” he says, a long, drawn-out noise that’s all for show. “Aaahhh. I seeeee.”

“Do you?”

“Hush. This is part of it.”

“Right, right. The mystical groaning.”

“People pay more for noises like that,” Akira says, and tilts his head just enough for Ryuji to see the smirk on his face. “Apparently it makes the experience a little more…genuine.”

And then he  _ winks, _ the jerk, and Ryuji barks laughter even as he flushes. “Just get to the point already!”

“Alright, alright, right to the main event for you. I’ll remember that.” He traces his finger in a semicircle around Ryuji’s thumb. “So this here? This is your life line. It doesn’t quite represent how long you’ll live, more of a ‘life energy’ or ‘vitality’ sort of predictor. So yours… yours is deep and clear, see? That means you’re good at sports.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious!” Akira grins at him. “It means that you’ve got tons and tons of physical vitality. If it was shallow, it’d mean that you’re better at using your mind. And see how it stretches all the way down off your palm? That means that you’ve got  _ lots _ of energy.”

He traces his finger along the line again, slipping it down off of Ryuji’s wrist to the sensitive skin there, and Ryuji can’t quite hold back a shiver. Akira looks at him, tilts his head just so, then looks back down at his hand. “This here,” he taps the crease running across the middle of Ryuji’s palm, “is the head line. It’s more about attitude, belief, self-control, memories; stuff like that. Yours stops right under your ring finger and slopes down, just a bit—“ he traces it, and Ryuji shivers again—“which means you’re tolerant and realistic. You’re not gonna run off to be a rocket scientist, but you’re good with people.”

He flattens Ryuji’s palm a little more, gently pulling his fingers back. “And this—“ he taps the last line, closest to the fingers, “is your heart line. It shows your attitude to love. And you…” He traces the line all the way from the edge of Ryuji’s palm to the base of his forefinger. “You’ve got great dreams, and high expectations, and lots and lots of love.”

His voice gets softer towards the end. Quieter. More intimate. His fingers wrap around Ryuji’s just as the first of the fireworks goes off.

“Huh,” Ryuji says.

He can’t focus on the kids hooting around them, the ‘ooh’ and the ‘aah’ and the sounds and the lights brilliant under the clouds, brilliantly reflected in Akira’s eyes, bright and grey and luminous as the sky.

He looks at Akira, and Akira looks back, and there’s something fizzling between them as bright and sparkling as any of the fireworks going off around them. The moment hangs, endless and shivery.

He doesn’t know which one of them leans in first. Maybe it’s Akira. Maybe it’s Ryuji. All he knows is that Akira’s face is close, close enough that it blocks out everything else, close enough that he’s sure Akira can see the red staining his cheeks and his ears but he doesn’t  _ care _ because all of Akira’s attention is fixed on him, right here, right now, in this moment, and—

and he—

and a sparkler goes off right beside them, and Ryuji nearly jumps out of his skin, and Akira laughs, his face softening, all of the intentness melting away as he rests his forehead against Ryuji’s for the space of a breath or two, achingly, unbearably tender.

When he pulls back, Ryuji could swear that Akira’s blushing just as much as he himself is.

“Let’s go find the others,” Akira says, his voice just the slightest bit hoarse. Ryuji doesn’t trust himself to answer, so he just nods.

Akira doesn’t let go of his hand until Futaba spots them. Ryuji feels the phantom warmth of his fingers for the rest of the night.

 

 

**> >in: group chat 2, 08/25, 11:49pm**

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ well it turns out ive clarified a lot of the motive behind the feels _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ cause you wanna kiss him on the face _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ cause I wanna _

_ goddamn it futaba _

**> >from: takamaki ann**

_ CALLED IT _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ its literally the most obvious thing in the world _

**> >from: okumura haru**

_ Mako-chan and I saw the two of you looking very cozy up by the observatory, Akira-kun! What were you doing? _

**> >from: nijima makoto**

_ Besides holding hands, that is. _

**> >from: takamaki ann**

_ holding hands?? in public? _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ scandalous _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ stop laughing so loud you’re gonna wake ryuji up _

_ or hes gonna roll over and ask me what i’m looking at _

_ and then there’ll be questions _

**> >from: takamaki ann**

_ i honestly can’t believe it took you this long to realize _

_ are you going to be okay after we leave? _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ yeah _

_ yeah, i think i will be _

_ i almost managed to tell him tonight _

_ if it wasn’t for that goddamn kid with the sparkler _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ poor akira _

_ cockblocked by a child as soon as you got to the handholding stage _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ we weren’t holding hands _

_ i was reading his palm _

**> >from: takamaki ann**

_ reading his palm? _

_ like fortune telling? _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ i told him his heart line was full of love _

_ or something like that _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ kurusu you’re killing me _

_ stop giving me lines like that if you won’t let me react to them _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ you get one. _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ oh god thank you _

_ GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAi’m done _

**> >from: okumura haru**

_ That’s so sweet, Akira-kun! _

**> >from: nijima makoto**

_ And clever, too. Was it true? _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ why would i lie during a palm reading? _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ you told inari that since his “head line” bent down it meant that he was fertile _

_ he spent two days talking about his future children _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ ffs _

_ fertile of imagination _

_ rich in creative imagery _

**> >from: okumura haru**

_ You told me that since my head line was doubled, I had strong mental ability. _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ which is true _

**> >from: okumura haru**

_ And also a pun on my Psy, was it not? _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ i can be truthful and also punny _

**> >from: takamaki ann**

_ so what’s your plan going to be once we’re gone? _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ yeah you’ve only got like a week left to get your groove on _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ mission start? _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ yeah! _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ i always work better on a time limit anyway _

**> >from: nijima makoto**

_ So you have a plan? _

**> >from: kurusu akira**

_ i’ve never had a plan in my life _

_ that’s never stopped me before _

_ won’t stop me now _

**> >from: takamaki ann**

_ hoo boy _

**> >from: sakura futaba**

_ this is gonna be a trainwreck _

_ send pics _

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**> >in: illicit backroom bargain bin, 08/26, 6:53am**

**> >from: lobsterman**

**_file sent:_ ** _ inaba_sunrise_1 _

**_file sent:_ ** _ inaba_sunrise_2 _

**_file sent:_ ** _ inaba_sunrise_3 _

_ I require each of your inputs as to which of these angles is most lovely. _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ inari im going to kill you myself _

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_ god yusuke why _

_ do you know what time it is _

**> >from: lobsterman**

_ It is almost seven in the morning, which is a perfectly appropriate time to be awake. _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ yeah if you didn’t go to sleep at hell o’clock _

**> >from: lobsterman**

_ I believe the old adage is “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise”, is it not? _

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_ early to rise and early to bed makes a man healthy but socially dead _

**> >from: the feds**

_ That’s quite witty for you this early in the morning, Akira. Are you feeling alright? _

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_ didn’t sleep _

__ guess i am a lil more nervous than i thought  
__  
_ that’s some hefty cloud cover tho _ __  
__  
thought the rain was supposed to pass overnight

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ pathetic _

_ flirt all night and then act all chaste and coy in the morning _

**> >from: the feds**

_ You two are aware that this is the main group chat, correct? _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ aw heck _

_ sorry akira _

**> >from: the feds**

_ It’s probably best that everyone be awake sooner or later anyway; there’s a decent chance for more rain today and I’d rather not spend more time driving in it than absolutely necessary. _

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_ yusukes fault _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ gdi yusuke _

**> >from: lobsterman**

_ Perhaps it truly is… _

_ What an astounding power I wield… _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ akira where coffee _

_ akira where you _

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_ under sink _

_ in bathroom _

**> >from: okumura haru**

_ That is quite an interesting place to keep your coffee beans. _

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_ no one would ever find them there _

  
  


The mood is somber the morning that everyone leaves.

Packing gets done, but sullenly. Futaba drops her bags by the front door with something approaching spite, glaring at them like they’ve done her a personal wrong. Makoto makes a completely unnecessary Junes run and comes back with bags full of fresh vegetables and miso, filling the fridge like a doting mother hen. Ryuji helps Yusuke lug all his stuff out to the van, packing it in with care before the rain hits.

Through it all Akira sits at the kitchen counter and watches everyone a little forlornly. (“It’s like we’ve kicked his puppy,” Ann hisses as Haru passes, and Haru shakes her head and says “Or that  _ he’s _ the kicked puppy” in return.) No one calls him out on it; everyone does their best not to stray too far.

Eventually everyone ends up in the kitchen as well, scattered on the table and seated at the counter and leaning against the wall. Without a word Akira sets some water to boil, unearths his special bean tin from the very back of the cabinets, and pulls the French press out of the corner.

Little by little, the hazy, warm scent of coffee fills the air.

Everyone takes a mug, even Ryuji; his is already doctored well with milk and sugar, and he’s sure the others’ cups have been customized to their preference as well. Akira takes his black; he leans against the counter and faces them all, his mug cradled loosely between his hands. His eyes are far away; it’s anyone’s guess as to what he’s thinking.

“Smells like home,” Futaba murmurs. “Dad’d be proud.”

“Yeah.” Akira takes a moment to inhale, then sighs and sets his cup down without taking a sip. “I know I shouldn’t feel melancholy—I’ve had you guys all to myself for a whole week—and I know we’ll all see each other again, but…”

“It’s not the same,” Makoto finishes for him, a wry smile on her face. “I know. I miss it too.”

“Things used to be much less complicated,” Yusuke takes a sip of his coffee and sighs as well, “when everyone was a mere train ride away.”

Ryuji sets his mug down with a louder clink than necessary. “You guys are a bunch of downers,” he blurts; the looks he gets in return range from interested (Akira) to mocking (Ann) to exasperated (Futaba). “Yeah, the good ol’ days are gone, but it’s not like  _ we _ are, yeah? We’re still us. We’re still the Phantom Thieves.”

“We’re still family,” Akira says. Ryuji can’t quite tell with the coffee mug in front of his face, but it sounds like he’s smiling.

The mood lightens just a bit after that, gentle conversations happening in twos and threes across the room. Ryuji gets Akira to refill his coffee; when he gets back to his seat, Makoto and Haru settle beside him like the two most intimidating bookends ever.

“Mako-chan and I have a proposal for you, Ryuji-kun,” Haru says, blunt and direct. “Ann-chan told us that you don’t have the funds for a  _ yobiko _ —please don’t interrupt me,” she puts a finger on his nose when Ryuji opens his mouth, “I really think that you’ll agree to this!”

“We’d like it if you came and studied with us at Leblanc once a week or so,” Makoto says, cool and composed as ever, leaving Ryuji feeling like he’s coming blind into the middle of an ongoing conversation.

“We’ve been talking about it for a few days, and if Boss agrees we’d like to have a weekly study night, preferably with as many of us as we can manage!”

“There is no pressure, of course, but if you can fit us into your schedule…”

Ryuji likes to think he’s good at talking. He might not be the best with the correct words at the correct time like Akira is, but if someone just needs to fill some space, Ryuji’s their guy.

Right now, though? He’s speechless. “You guys don’t…have to go through all that for me,” he says after a minute, his throat tight. Makoto just smiles into her mug, and Haru scoffs out loud. “I mean it!”

“And if we just want to gather ourselves, and you just so happen to drop by?” she asks, and despite how sweet her voice is and how calm her face is there’s a challenge blaring beneath her words.

Ryuji’s never been one to back down from a challenge. His ma may have raised a fool, but she didn’t raise a quitter. “Alright,” he says, low and soft. “Okay. I—thanks. Really. But only if y’guys have time for me, okay? I don’t wanna get in the way of your actual schoolwork.”

Makoto pats his knee, and Haru rubs his shoulder. “Perhaps after, you could come to yoga with us,” Makoto suggests, and smiles all the wider at his grimace.

Eventually, though, as all things do, the time comes to an end.

Makoto looks at the clock on the wall and grimaces; as if something’s gone through the air the rest of them turn to look as well. Everyone except Akira, who leans against the counter with his shoulders hunched and refuses to lift his eyes above shoulder level.

It makes Ryuji ache inside, watching him like this. Even though he spends most of his time in Tokyo now, it still chafes Akira to watch his friends walking away knowing that he can’t follow them, not yet. It fills Ryuji with restless energy, with a weirdly tender yearning, with the urge to slip around the counter and sling his arm over Akira’s shoulders cause yeah, he knows it sucks, but at least he’ll still be here, yeah?

That’s his place.

The thought glosses over inside him crystal-clear, a certainty he hasn’t felt since Captain Kidd metamorphosed into Seiten Taisei. That’s  _ his place. _ Right there. Right here. Right at his side, as his right-hand man, his support when he’s down, just as Akira is for him. Just as Akira has been all summer long.

He shoves his chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the linoleum, a piercingly shrill noise that draws the eyes of everyone in the room, including Akira. That’s okay. He doesn’t mind.

His hip bumps into the counter as he rounds it but he doesn’t wince, just meets Akira’s side in a carefully controlled crash that makes the remaining coffee in Akira’s mug slosh dangerously. “Chin up, buddy,” he says with a grin as warm as he feels inside. “They’re not gonna be gone forever, yanno? You’re gonna make me feel like bad fridge leftovers if you keep moping around before they’ve even left.”

“All moldy and rotten,” Ann adds from across the room with a smile to match his own. “Soggy and gross. The kind even Yusuke wouldn’t eat.”

Yusuke snorts. “Don’t be foolish. I’ve never met a leftover meal I would not eat.”

“Uhh, that’s not a good thing, Inari,” Futaba mumbles. “That’s how you get food poisoning. Just because I dared you to eat some of the produce drawer leftovers out of the Leblanc fridge—”

“You did  _ what _ ?!” Makoto says, utterly appalled.

Akira puts his coffee mug down and  _ laughs. _

It’s a beautiful thing, and it draws everyone else in with it; the laughter ringing around the kitchen is probably the happiest sound this house has ever heard. Ryuji cherishes it, just as much as he cherishes the brilliantly happy look on Akira’s face when Akira slings an arm around his waist.

“Group hug!” Haru trills, and then they’re all around him, a huge pressing crush of bodies still laughing, still smiling, still together.

Always together, no matter what. It’s not something that Ryuji will forget again, not ever.

When they part, Futaba takes an extra second or five to dangle from Akira’s neck. Ann and Haru each kiss him on the cheek, and Makoto draws him into a hug that Ryuji only resents because it means Akira detangles himself to give her his full attention.

Yusuke gets a hug too, and then turns and demands one from Ryuji as well. While he’s still sputtering over that, Morgana twines around Ann’s ankles wistfully until she picks him up and gives him a squeeze, then passes him down the line to Futaba and Haru.

Sure, it’s a bittersweet moment, but it’s not going to be long until they’re all together again.

 

Akira ghosts around the house like a man bereft for less than an hour before Ryuji shoves the scooter helmets at him. “I can’t take it anymore!” he shouts, a little more melodramatically than he needs to. Morgana flattens his ears against his head and scoots out of the room. “I can’t watch you gimp around like a three-legged dog waitin’ for his master to come back!”

“Maybe they’ll be bringing doggy bags,” Akira says faux-morosely where he’s hanging upside down on the couch, his legs hooked over the back and his hair brushing the floor. “Maybe the doorbell will ring and they’ll decide to stay the rest of the summer.”

“Or maybe,” Ryuji says, dropping Akira’s helmet onto his stomach— (Akira goes ‘oof’ and rolls around it like a pillbug, falling off the couch; he deserves it, though—) “maybe you can take us to the beach and work off some of those sad vibes, eh? Eh?”

It’s hilarious, watching him struggle to right himself, but he eventually manages, his black hair even more tousled than usual. “You really wanna risk it? Looks like rain.”

“Like runnin’ in the rain’s ever bothered us before?” Ryuji raises his eyebrow, and Akira shrugs and heaves himself off the floor.

There’s an air of something different between them as soon as they get off the scooter.

Maybe it’s Ryuji and his newfound center of calm that has him lingering just a split second too long before he pulls away from Akira and slips off the scooter; maybe it’s the long, liquid look Akira levels at him as they stretch. Maybe it’s the teasing way Akira bumps shoulders with him. Maybe it’s the ankle Akira hooks around his own that sends him sprawling to the sand after three steps.

Whatever it is, it’s clear that neither of them have their mind fully on running.

Oh, sure, they make the effort—until Akira trips him again, or Ryuji cuts in front of him and sends Akira sprawling into the soft sand, until one or the other drags themselves up and starts chasing mad circles after the other, cackling like wild animals.

Ryuji’s filled with effervescent glee as he dodges away from Akira’s grasp and scrabbles towards the water, like his blood has turned to bubbles, like he could just float away. Every trace of Akira’s mopey mood has vanished—there’s a grin on his face to match Ryuji’s, and an intent look in his eyes that echoes the metaverse even here and now.

He keeps darting back and forth in front of Ryuji, herding him this way and that, and it’s only when the first splash of cold water starts seeping into his shoes that Ryuji realizes he’s about to get shoved into the ocean.

Well if he’s going down, he sure as hell ain’t goin’ down alone!

The next time Akira comes at him, Ryuji grabs him round the waist and flings them both sideways into the next oncoming wave.

He gets a mouthful of salt water for his troubles and rises sputtering to his knees, only for Akira to pounce on him and shove him backwards. Ryuji retaliates with a handful of sand shoved under the gaping hem of his shirt, and Akira’s falsetto squeal makes him grin wide and eager.

The surf drags at them, hard enough to topple them but never strong enough to drag them further out to sea; this is a good thing, as neither of the two of them show any signs of moving back up onto the sand. Akira’s far more interested in spinning a lasso of seaweed around his head, slapping the slimy end against Ryuji’s arms and shoulders just to hear him yell. Ryuji, in return, lowers his shoulder and barrels straight through him, knocking them both off their feet again. When they breach the surface, they’re both laughing.

The next wave breaks square across Ryuji’s back.

He might shriek a little bit, rolling forward to tumble Akira into the next one. It knocks Akira off balance; he lands on his ass and braces his arms to keep himself from falling further, grimacing at the taste of salt water, and Ryuji laughs until the wave shoves him forward as well, sending him straight between Akira’s bent knees.

The mood shifts from playful to serious in the space of a breath, with the abruptness of a slap; the realization of his position trickles down his spine like ice water. He’s  _ really _ close to Akira right now, close enough to see the water droplets from his soaked hair trickling down his cheek, close enough that Akira’s raised knee brushes the outside of his thigh.

Close enough that he can see Akira’s eyes drop and land, almost blatantly, on where Ryuji is currently biting his lip.

Ann’s words crash into his head like a freight train derailing, spilling their contents everywhere to uselessness. Akira’s watching his mouth. That means—or, it could mean—it could mean nothing. It could mean everything. And if he’s being honest with himself for once, Ryuji really,  _ really _ wants it to mean everything.

Akira called him a Chariot once, back when they’d first met. When Ryuji tried to make him explain, he just gave some nonsense answer about always moving forward.

Ryuji’s been stalled these last few months. It’s about damn time he levers himself up out of his rut and keeps charging forward like he means it. He’s ready.  _ More _ than ready.

It’s about time he stops overthinking things, too. He’ll deal with the fallout afterwards like he always does, but it’s up to him to take that first lunge forward.

Akira’s eyes flick up to meet his, just briefly, then drop back down; he bites his own lip this time, almost a mirror to what Ryuji’s doing. He hasn’t moved an inch.

So Ryuji takes a breath or two to bolster himself, fists one hand into the front of Akira’s soaked shirt and snakes the other around his back, pulling him up, pulling him closer, and drags him into a kiss.

For a moment— an awful, terrifying, breath-stealing, heart-stopping moment— there’s no reaction.

Then Akira breathes against him, hot on his chilled lips, the tiniest exhalation, and a lot of things happen at once.

His arms come up, burning brands against Ryuji’s cold skin; his hands bury themselves into Ryuji’s hair as he tilts his head into the kiss, and  _ god _ what a difference it makes! He kicks one leg up to wrap around Ryuji’s hips, dragging himself even closer, plastering himself to Ryuji’s front to chase away every centimeter of distance between the two of them—

and Ryuji loses all sense of balance and dumps them both into the nearest oncoming wave.

The sheer shock of it jolts them apart, but just barely; Ryuji drops an arm to cover his face while he sneezes the seawater out of his nose. When he looks up, Akira’s got both hands over his face, and every inch of skin that Ryuji can see is bright red.

He looks  _ mortified. _

Ryuji loses his everloving  _ shit. _

He laughs so long and hard that he cries, so long that he can’t even breathe; Akira just sits there, red as a tomato, looking at everything and everywhere  _ but _ Ryuji. He’s never seen Akira so flustered before, so genuinely wrong-footed, and the fact that he just tipped them over into the water while he was trying to—shit, Ryuji doesn’t even know what he was trying to accomplish, climb him like a tree? Whatever it was, it failed.

“Bro,” he croaks, unable to keep the almost manic smile off his face, “dude, Akira—if you didn’t want me to kiss you, you just—you could’ve said so; drowning me’s a little much, don’t you think?”

Akira drops his hands to  _ stare  _ at him. The utterly flat look on his face sets Ryuji back off into hysterics.

He can’t help it, he honestly can’t help himself, but—he’d kissed back! Akira  _ kissed him back _ eagerly enough to send them both sprawling, Akira’s hands are hooked into his collar, Akira’s sitting warm and grumpy pretty much square on his lap in the middle of the ocean and it’s starting to  _ rain _ on them!

“Ryuji,” Akira grumbles, sliding his hand up to cup the back of Ryuji’s neck, “it’s not that funny—“

“ _ Yeah _ it is!” Ryuji all but howls, squishing Akira’s face between both of his hands. “It’s—it’s effin’ hysterical, man, you’re  _ pouting—“ _

“I’m not pouting,” Akira pouts, his brow drawing down even further at Ryuji’s choked laughter. “Stop it.”

“Uh, yeah you are, man, you’ve got a killer poutyface and you’re red as a goddamn stop sign and you tried to drown me when I kissed you—“

Akira groans long and loud, almost loud enough to drown out Ryuji’s near-hysterical giggling; then he does something with his legs, hooks himself back up over Ryuji’s hips and pulls himself up until he’s straddling his lap. “If all you’re going to do is laugh at me,” he mutters, his hand fisting even tighter in the collar of Ryuji’s shirt, “then I’m going to—“

“To what?” Ryuji says, unable to help himself even as he wraps both his arms around Akira’s waist to keep him right where he is, his heart thudding gleefully in his chest. “Try ‘n drown me again?”

“More like drown myself,” he mumbles. He’s still blushing, and he either can’t bring himself to or refuses to meet Ryuji’s eyes, even when Ryuji ducks his head to try and nudge his way into his view.

It’s cute as  _ hell _ . “You’re cute as hell when you’re mad,” Ryuji blurts, and makes a delighted noise when Akira jumps and, somehow, gets even more red. “Dude, save some blood for the rest of your body!”

“You think I’m not trying?” He makes a helplessly frustrated noise. “I can’t help it if you keep—being yourself!”

This is the best thing that’s ever happened to Ryuji. He gets a front-row seat to watch Kurusu Akira put his foot in his mouth over and over and over again, and Akira’s well aware. “God,” he groans, “fuck’s sake, look, I’m just—I’m just going to kiss you again and we’re going to pretend this never happened, alright?”

“I’m never forgetting this moment for the rest of my life,” Ryuji promises, and he’s still laughing when Akira’s mouth slots back over his own.

It’s only as awkward as he lets it be; he keeps grinning, and Akira keeps making tiny disgruntled noises whenever he does, pulling back to layer kisses across his cheeks, cupping his face in both of his hands to tilt him just so. He’s more than happy to let Akira orchestrate him like he wants to; he’s more than happy to stay putty in his hands, to kiss Akira for as long as he’ll let him.

He tastes like salt. Like the ocean, and like something that’s fully Akira. Even embarrassed halfway out of his skin Akira is tender, and he relaxes into Ryuji’s arms like he belongs there, like it’s his rightful place.

It’s raining harder on them now. Ryuji’s soaked from his hair to his shoes, salty and sandy and gross; Akira feels like a furnace against his front, and his breath is warm on his mouth and his hands are in his hair and Ryuji never, ever wants this moment to end.

This is, of course, when the largest wave yet breaks over them both and leaves them spitting ocean water again.

“That’s  _ it! _ ” Akira barks, and smacks Ryuji in the chest when he bursts back into laughter. “No, shut up! We’re going home, and we’re doing this properly!”

“You sure you’re not just gonna end up drowning me in the bathtub?” Ryuji wheezes.

“Make another drowning joke and I just might.”

“But what if I’m drowning in your eyes?”

Akira shoves him under the water without a moment of hesitation.

When Ryuji comes up, still laughing, he’s slogging his way to shore. Ryuji follows him, of course, grabs him around the waist and picks him up to twirl him in a dumb little circle that startles a giggle out of him.

It takes ages to get up to where they’ve parked the scooter, mostly because they keep dragging each other into kisses; some lingering, some quick and flirty. They’re both shivering—the rain is warm, but it’s still rain, and they’re completely soaked from head to toe as it is.

It’s not a fun ride home, but it’s still memorable in that Ryuji plasters himself up against Akira’s back and wraps both arms tight around his waist, tight enough that he can feel Akira breathing, can feel each and every shudder. He’s reluctant to let go when they get to the house, but Akira layers his arms over Ryuji’s own and squeezes, long and warm.

Ryuji learns a lot of things over that long and lazy afternoon.

He learns that the tub in Akira’s bathroom is big enough for two, if they don’t mind squeezing in together. He learns that Akira’s noises of utter contentment when Ryuji helps him wash his hair gain very different context when they’re both stripped down to their boxers and have spent the last half hour making out against the bathroom sink. He learns that Akira likes to nip, and that Ryuji very much likes being nipped.

He learns that Akira is very, very ticklish in the soft spots under his ribs and above his hip bones, and that he’ll sack out almost like he’s been put into a trance when Ryuji skates the very tips of his fingers all up and down the flat expanse of his back. He learns that napping with Akira warm and heavy and pliant above him yields the best sleep he’s ever had.

He learns that hard conversations aren’t made easier, but the process is definitely more pleasant, with Akira straddling his thighs and resting his chin on top of Ryuji’s head, his arms loose across Ryuji’s shoulders. It’s easier to talk about how worried he is about the future when his face is buried into Akira’s neck. It’s easier to deal with his misgivings when Akira’s fingers are petting through his hair and down his neck, making his skin tingle. It’s easier to listen to and acknowledge Akira’s support when it’s murmured directly into his ear and followed up with a kiss.

“Whatever you end up doing,” Akira tells him, his lips pressed under the hinge of Ryuji’s jaw, “I’ll be there to support you.”

It's not easy, but it's easier, and Ryuji takes that for the gift it is.

  
  


The last week that Ryuji spends in Inaba passes like he’s in a dream.

They do everything they’ve done before—they jog around town, they go to the beach, they get steak at the Junes food court and Ryuji drops his soda when he sees the goddamn bear peeking at him from behind the door to the stairs—but there’s an extra flavor to it somehow, a joy that hasn’t been there before.

It takes Ryuji two days before he realizes that, for the first time since he came to Inaba in July, that he’s completely and totally relaxed.

He’s not stressed about the fact that he failed his entrance exams—in fact, when he examines the thought cautiously, he’s surprised to find that it doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s not like pressing at the spot where a loose tooth was knocked out, more like running his tongue over a gap that’s healed tender but clean.

(Huh. Face it, accept it, deal with it, let it go.

He’s got some textbooks buried deep in his closet that he’ll need to dig out if Makoto and Haru are going to be drilling him.)

They don’t… _ only _ do what they’ve done before.

Sure, they run, but after they run Akira sprawls on top of him, lazy and boneless, while Ryuji runs his fingers through his hair and smooths his thumbs across his face in quiet wonder. They go to the beach, and Akira “helps” him with his yoga poses via a hand to the small of his back or pressed onto his chest or holding his leg, something innocuous that still brings a blush to Ryuji’s face and a smirk to Akira’s. They go to Junes, and Akira holds his hand while they walk through the aisles, their fingers laced together palm to palm; Ryuji’s heart could just throw itself out of his chest in happiness.

They cook, and they watch movies, and they play video games, and they sleep; Akira’s bed is just barely big enough for two. They talk in the night about anything and everything, serious or not. They kiss; Akira finds all of Ryuji’s sensitive spots, and Ryuji returns the favor tenfold.

They…do more than kiss.

If Ryuji thinks about it any more than that in the daylight, he’ll heat up like a teakettle, so he does his best not to.

Morgana won’t look at either of them. Akira’s taken to cooking him somewhat elaborate breakfasts in apology (though really it’s not  _ his  _ fault Morgana just barreled in). But today he’s sleeping in, and so Ryuji’s the one cooking breakfast—a real one, not just rice and egg. The rice is already cooking, and the last of the salmon Makoto bought them sits pretty and pink waiting to go into the pan once Ryuji’s done with the tamagoyaki; he’s just sliding it onto a plate when Morgana walks in and hops onto the counter, watching him. “I didn’t know you could cook,” he says eventually. “You’re just full of hidden depths, aren’t you?”

“Mmm, that’s me,” Ryuji agrees. The salmon sizzles when he drops it in, and both of them make an appreciative noise. “Just fulla depth. Here.” He holds out a long sliver of tamagoyaki at just the right height for Morgana to grab and gulp. “How’s it taste?”

Somehow Morgana manages to convey “raised eyebrows” on a feline face that really shouldn’t be able to move that way. “It’s…good?” he says, clearly surprised. “You really  _ can _ cook!”

“Course I can. I gotta make sure my ma comes home to something for dinner, don’t I? She works late, an’ I don’t want her to have to fuss around in the kitchen when she comes home.” He holds out another sliver. Morgana eats this one more slowly, clearly savoring it. “No more till Akira gets up, we’re gonna eat together.”

They don’t speak again until after Ryuji’s flipped the salmon and started plating the rice and the tamagoyaki. By then Morgana’s made his way up to the stove, watching Ryuji’s every move. “Hey, hey,” he says, “Ryuji.”

“Yeah?”

“…if you can cook like this all the time, I guess I’ll allow you to date Akira.”

“Yeah?” Ryuji says again, unable to stop his grin.

“But  _ only _ if I get at  _ least _ one breakfast like this a week. And you stop doing gross stuff in my bed!”

“That’s Akira’s bed, Mona. I can’t stop him from doing stuff in his own bed, that’s just rude.”

“I sleep there too!!”

“You’ve got your own bed! Or the floor! Or the couch!”

“I can’t believe you! I give you my blessing and you tell me to sleep on the  _ floor!” _

They’re still bickering by the time Ryuji has all the food laid out on trays, and they’re  _ still _ bickering by the time Akira appears in the doorway, sleepy and bed-headed and grinning fit to burst.

 

It’s Ryuji’s last full day in Inaba, but he doesn’t want to do anything in particular, so they spend it wandering. He’s restless, but not enough that it makes him want to run, just a gentle urge to keep moving. It’s a gorgeous morning, promising to get hot by noon, already warm enough that they stop by Junes for a topsicle or two.

They walk back along the floodplain. Ryuji’s already finished his ice pop, and he wriggles the stick up and down between his teeth as they walk. The sun keeps peeking out from behind thick, fluffy clouds that don’t look like they could possibly hold rain; the shade is invigorating, but the sun sinks into his bones, makes him want to lie down on the sidewalk and nap until he wakes up with a sunburn.

“You look happy,” Akira says. Ryuji turns to him and tilts his head. “You’re—glowing.”

“Pretty sure that’s the sunburn,” Ryuji says, immediately rewarded when Akira laughs. “I am, though. Happy.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He sways in to brush his shoulder against Ryuji’s. “I was starting to get worried, y’know? I didn’t know what else I could do.”

“Dude.” They’re almost at the pavilion that overlooks the river, so Ryuji angles off towards it, relishing the comfort of the shade. “You’ve—you’ve done so much for me this summer, and you were worried that you weren’t doing enough?”

He sits on the table as Akira rubs the back of his neck, all his weight on one hip; he’s not wearing his glasses today, but he makes a motion like he’s trying to shove them up his nose anyway before he lets his hand fall to the side. “Yeah,” he shrugs after a moment. “Pretty much. I’m not saying you’re high maintenance or anything, and I get why you didn’t want to talk about the whole…”

The hand gesture he makes isn’t really evocative of anything, but Ryuji gets his point. He sighs and plants his hands on the wooden table, leaning back far enough to stare at the roof. “Yeah. The entrance exams.”

“How do you feel?” Akira asks as he steps forward, his palms landing warm on Ryuji’s knees. “About it, anyway. About going back.”

Ryuji considers.

He doesn’t have that tight little knot in his stomach or his chest anymore. On the contrary—he’s actually a little eager. Not to leave Akira or anything, but to get himself back on track. To rely on his friends, to make his ma proud, to live up to his place at Akira’s side. Just because he failed once doesn’t mean that it’ll happen again. He can make things right.

“Good,” he says. When he drops his gaze from the ceiling, Akira’s smiling at him.

“Good,” Akira echoes, and steps between his knees to kiss him.

 

That evening Akira shoos him out of the kitchen for dinner. Ryuji spends half his time watching a movie with Morgana and half of it peering over the edge of the couch, trying to see what’s so important. Whatever it is, it smells divine, enough that Ryuji would happily punch God in the face for the ability to smell it forever.

Turns out it’s beef bowls, and the first bite makes Ryuji moan almost obscenely, enough that Akira turns a bit red and Morgana yells at him as he darts out of the room. “Holy shit, Akira,” he says with his mouth full, absolutely worshipful. “This is the best goddamn beef bowl I’ve ever had, what the hell did you  _ do?!” _

“Made it with love, duh,” Akira says nonchalantly, and then has to pound on Ryuji’s back till he stops coughing.

It doesn’t diminish his enjoyment one bit, and kissing Akira is even nicer with the taste of the gyudon still layered in their mouths.

Good food and good company make it a little easier when he packs up his stuff that night. He washed all his laundry, so at least all his clothes will be clean when he gets back home, but it’s a struggle to not just ball them up and shove them into the duffel bag. His nice clothes never got worn; he never even took them out of the suitcase. His manga slot into place nice and neat. His 3ds stays out on its charger—he’ll grab it in the morning. It doesn’t take him long, not with Akira helping.

(If a couple of Akira’s shirts end up in Ryuji’s bag, neither of them mention it.)

There’s an awkward moment once everything’s done. His bags are set up against the wall, his shoes wait by the doorway—there’s no way around it, he’s leaving tomorrow, and this long, wonderful summer will come to an end.

Then the corner of Akira’s mouth tilts up, just a bit, and he says “wanna make out?”

“Hey Morgana,” Ryuji hollers out the open door, “don’t come up if you don’t wanna get scarred again!”

_ “GROSS!!” _ Morgana shrieks back.

Ryuji’s still howling with laughter when Akira closes the door and presses him up against it.

 

It’s sunny when Akira walks to the station with him the next morning.

This time Ryuji’s handling the rolling bag, mainly so he can lace his fingers with Akira’s and swing their hands back and forth. Without an umbrella to juggle Akira carries the duffel bag easily, his shoulders loose and relaxed, the breeze ruffling his bangs. He needs a haircut  _ so bad.  _ Doesn’t stop him from being  _ unfairly attractive _ .

They’re a little early, so they sit on the steps and trade a can of Second Maid between them. Neither of them had been all that hungry this morning; Ryuji plans on grabbing something from the vending machine when he switches lines. Akira’s thumb strokes along the backs of his knuckles and the side of his finger, a gentle, warm touch; Ryuji leans into his shoulder and watches the clouds drift past.

He’s gonna miss this. There’s always something so peaceful about the countryside.

“I’ll miss you,” Akira says, almost in time with his thoughts. “The countryside is so boring.”

“Don’t let Morgana hear you say you’re bored with his company.”

“There’s nothing to do.”

“Go to Junes.”

“I always go to Junes.”

“Swim in the Samegawa. Go to Okina.”

“Lame. I prefer having you around to entertain me.” Akira waggles his eyebrows, making Ryuji struggle to swallow his mouthful of Second Maid before he spews it all over the concrete.

“Dude! You’ll be here for, what, three more days before you go back to Tokyo? Read a book! Play a video game! Go to the beach!”

Akira’s expression falls dramatically, and he lays his head on Ryuji’s shoulder with a bone-deep groan. “I’m going to die out here alone and bereft before I see any of you again. Morgana will eat my corpse.”

“Yeah, yeah, woe is you,” Ryuji laughs, and leans over to kiss the side of Akira’s head. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I know,” Akira says, a little morose. “Three days, and then I won’t have to even think about Inaba until winter hits.”

They fall silent, listening to the birdsong and the wind rustling the leaves around them. Ryuji feels a little wistful. “I’ll meet you at the platform when you get in, alright?” he says after a long moment, putting the can down and cupping Akira’s hand with both of his. “We’ll go get beef bowls—though I got no clue how I’m gonna eat another beef bowl ever again after those ones you made.”

“And I’ll come visit you more,” Akira says, squeezing Ryuji’s hands tight. “But you have to text me back, especially if you get to feeling down. Alright?”

“Deal. I mean, I’ll be at Leblanc with Makoto and Haru every so often, at least, so…” He rubs the back of his head, a little embarrassed at how bright Akira smiles at that. “Turn it down, man.”

“Nah.” He leans forward just as they catch the sound of a train approaching the station, just as the automated announcement goes off, and his mouth twists. “Guess this is it.”

Ryuji looks at him for a long, long moment. His hair’s too long, but it’s still a good look on him. His eyes are fixed on Ryuji’s own, and he leans into Ryuji’s hand when Ryuji cups his face. “Hey,” Ryuji says, low and quiet, just for the two of them.

“Yeah?” Akira’s voice is almost just a breath.

Ryuji leans in, real close, close enough that their foreheads almost touch, close enough that Akira’s eyelids flutter shut, close enough that their breaths mingle. “Stop pouting.”

He relishes the look of delighted outrage on Akira’s face just before he kisses him.

 

It’s a long and lonely train ride, that’s for sure.

He naps; he fusses around on his phone. There’s a message from Akira—just a selfie of him in a tank top that Ryuji apparently left behind, and Ryuji texts him back two eggplants and a pair of eyes, a combo that has him grinning till he changes train lines.

When the boredom gets too much, he checks the group chat.

 

**> >in: illicit backroom bargain bin, 09/01, 11:35am**

**> >from: the feds**

_ There isn’t really any sort of ‘opinion’ about it: yes, that’s illegal. _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ ok but like makoto what if he really deserves it _

_ the dude was trying to take upskirt pictures of some girls in my class _

_ it's not like we can go to mementos and change his heart anymore _

_ alibaba’s got an itchin _

**> >from: the feds**

_ And you can’t just _

_ Oh what am I saying, of course asking a teacher is a stupid idea. _

_ I cannot legally condone you hacking into his computer and recording what he does in front of it _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ not like jackin it _

_ he dances _

_ and he does not have the moves _

**> >from: lobsterman**

_ Consider the effect an earthquake would have on a lonesome jelly, sitting on a plate. _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ lmao!!!!! _

_ thats exactly it! _

_ anyway it’s not like it’d be public humiliation _

_ i just want to print some stills and put them in his shoe locker _

_ sorta like a calling card but less phantom thiefy _

**> >from: the feds**

_ Oh, well, if that’s it… _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ and maybe send them to his mom _

**> >from: the world’s deadliest creampuff**

_ You don’t think that would be going too far, Futaba-chan? _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ this guy is a genuine bonafide CREEP _

_ think mishima with less values _

_ and less usefulness _

_ he says kek out loud _

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_ aw hell no you cant let that stand _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ thank you akira _

_ glad to see you pulled yourself out of hibernation to talk with us today _

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_ soooooo _

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_ so _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ spill _

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_ spill what _

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_ the beans _

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_ can’t _

_ futaba didn’t bring me any _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ AKIRA _

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_ don’t give me that kurusu _

**> >from: the world’s deadliest creampuff**

_ Did nothing really happen?? After all that effort we made?! _

**> >from: the feds**

_ Akira, if you let him leave without saying anything, you are going to regret it. _

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_ hey hey hey _

_ what is this, the sakamoto ryuji appreciation club _

_ i don’t appreciate you all founding one without me _

_ especially since i spent the lot of the last week with my mouth on his mouth _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_!!! _

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_!!! _

**> >from: the world’s deadliest creampuff**

_!!! _

**> >from: the feds**

_!!! _

**> >from: lobsterman**

_ It seems congratulations are in order. _

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_ you did it! _

**> >from: the world’s deadliest creampuff**

_ Oh, Akira-kun, I am so happy for both you and Ryuji! _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ how’s mona taking it lmao _

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_ he walked in on us the other day and i had to make him fancy breakfast for a week _

**> >from: japan’s next top model**

_ lmao!!! _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ lmao!!! _

**> >from: the feds**

_ I’m quite glad that the two of you have reached a happy ending, Akira. _

**> >from: a genuine chance at world domination**

_ heh _

**> >from: the fastest shiba in shibuya**

_ heh _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ GROSS _

_ NO _

_ BAD _

 

**> >sakura futaba has banned kurusu akira and sakamoto ryuji from responding to the chat!**

 

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ YOU SIT IN TIME OUT _

_ YOU KEEP THAT TO YOURSELF _

**> >from: the world’s deadliest creampuff**

_ Futaba-chan, wasn’t that a bit of an overreaction? _

_ All they did was laugh, and this was the first time Ryuji-kun has shown up in quite some time… _

**> >from: coffee gremlin jr**

_ makoto you explain _

_ if i think about my big brother doing that with his bf my eyeballs will explode out of my head _

_ itll be real gross and i need those _

 

Ryuji turns his screen off, biting down on the laughter that threatens to escape. He has some really good friends.

It’s been a rough couple of months, but he finally feels like things are gonna be okay.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it! beach yoga is done!!
> 
> i just want to thank you all so heckin much for your overwhelmingly positive responses and support during this story. when i first started _a storm is coming in_ i'd just been fired from a job i'd been putting heart and soul and blood and tears (literally blood and tears) into, i was in a crushingly awful depressive spiral, and i figured there was no better way to deal with it than to shove all of it onto my good boy ryuji. so much of beach yoga is vent fic-- i made it into college, but seven years ago i had an awful meltdown and flunked myself out. it set me back really far, and honestly i haven't felt like i've managed to start climbing back up until these past few months. things have been better, and honestly i credit beach yoga with helping that.
> 
> to everyone who emphasizes with ryuji, to everyone who feels like he did throughout this story, i want to promise you: it will get better. it won't be immediately. it might not be for years. it might not feel like it ever will, but i _promise_ that it does. lean on your friends. lean on your loved ones. they're there for you, and they love you, and i love you.
> 
> thank you all so much for your words and your tears (i cried while writing this chapter and also while writing this end note, i've never felt as bereft letting a story go before lmao)
> 
> my tumblr is cant-icle, and i always, always love to hear from you.
> 
> once more, thank you so much for reading!!!

**Author's Note:**

> this is a new and different type of fic from me, and something pretty close to my heart. i hope you all will bear with me to the finish <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [slowing to a trickle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15830712) by [isthepartyover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthepartyover/pseuds/isthepartyover)




End file.
